Against the Clock
by Littlefish
Summary: Sam and Dean are taken by men that claim the boys have something that belongs to them…a dangerous and powerful weapon. Now they must race against the clock to find the weapon and unravel its mysteries before time runs out for one…or both…of them. Plenty of hurt and angst to go around. Set mid-season 2.
1. Chapter 1

_**Summary: **Sam and Dean are taken by men that claim the boys have something that belongs to them…a dangerous and powerful weapon. Now they must race against the clock to find the weapon and unravel its mysteries before time runs out for one…or both…of them. _

_Thanks to firstcatfish for beta reading for me. Go check out her new story 'A Shot In Time.'_

_**Disclaimer**: Both Winchester boys were harmed during the making of this story…and let's face it, we all like it better that way… Oh, I don't own them, either._

_**Set mid-season two**._

**Chapter 1**

The door slammed closed with an air of finality, and he was suddenly left alone.

Dean leaned back and ran a trembling hand down his face, amazed that Sam had listened to him, had given him what he asked for. He knew his brother was hurt by it, maybe even a little angry, but he'd still done it, and for that Dean was grateful. His pain was his own, and Sam shouldn't have to carry it, especially when there was nothing he could do to help. Dean had to face this alone…for his own sake as much as his brother's.

His eyes strayed to the clock, and he bit his lip. Despite his best efforts he couldn't hold the fear at bay. It coiled around him, drying out his mouth, tightening his muscles, and forming hard knots in his stomach. He hated it…hated that it had managed to get such a hold on him. There was no putting on a strong game face, no shrugging away his fear as though it didn't matter. He had been stripped of all his defenses, left raw and exposed.

One way or another, it would all be over soon.

With iron determination he forced his thoughts away from what was coming, filling his mind instead with images and memories of the past. Times with Sammy on the road…the places they had seen and the people they had met. There were bad memories there, but there were also plenty of good ones, and he focused on those, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

The pain took him without warning, crashing down on him like a predator striking out at its prey. Thought and memory fled to be replaced with white hot agony, and he arched backward, his throat closing around a scream

'_It will not beat me!'_

Somewhere far back in the recesses of his mind he chanted that single mantra, the only flimsy shield he had against the attack on his body. But soon even that was lost to him, swallowed by the waves of agony washing through him, sweeping him away, leaving nothing in its wake.

He didn't even hear himself screaming.

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_Three Days Earlier_

_Just outside of Fort Collins, CO_

The spirit's piercing scream echoed throughout the dilapidated remains of the old barn, cold and chilling in its intense rage. Sam felt a shiver slide down his spine as he raced toward the back of the barn, his eyes frantically searching through piles of old tools and other rusty equipment.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, shoving aside some rotted out crates as the scream sounded again. "Where is it?"

He ducked down to peer under a bench, and an old milk pail sailed over his head to strike the back of the barn with a clang. Sam winced as it dropped to the floor, dented almost beyond recognition. At least it hadn't been a rusty pair of sheering scissors like the last time. Dean had come dangerously close to losing an ear.

The blast of a shotgun echoed through the barn, followed almost immediately by his brother's shout.

"Hurry it up, Sam! This isn't the time for window shopping!"

Sam rolled his eyes, not bothering to respond as he hurriedly returned to his search. At last he spotted what he was looking for; an old trunk half buried beneath a pile of boxes. He lunged forward, yanking it free in a rain of dust and other debris, falling to his knees before it. His shotgun dropped to the ground at his side, the weapon useless anyway, shells spent and with no time to reload. He groaned slightly at the sight of the thick and formidable looking padlock securing the trunk closed.

A small wooden box nearby caught his eye and he reached out and grabbed an old hammer from the pile of rusty and ancient looking tools within. Grasping it firmly, he swung down at the lock with all his might. Nothing happened. Twice more he brought the hammer slamming down, but on the fourth swing the handle broke with a snap, sending the head flying off into the darkness.

Sam swore, the temperature in the barn suddenly plummeting once more, marking the return of the spirit. He didn't bother trying to look for it, trusting his brother to watch his back as he searched for something else he might use to break the lock. A moment later he felt a hand grip his shoulder and his brother's curt voice sounded directly behind him.

"Move, Sammy."

Obediently shifting to one side, Sam brought his hands up to cover his ears as Dean's hand appeared in front of him, tightly gripping his favorite pearl handled 911. His brother fired once and the lock fell away with a soft thud onto the dirt floor.

"You sure it's here?" Dean asked, standing back and allowing Sam to resume his position in front of the trunk.

"It's where old man Adels said he put it in his journal," Sam replied, hefting open the heavy lid and groaning aloud at the overflow of junk spilling from the large confines of the trunk.

"Yeah well, just hurry," Dean growled, turning to take up a protective stance at Sam's back as he began hauling the junk from the trunk. "If it's really in there, creepy Miss Creepy isn't going to be too happy about us rummaging around."

As if to punctuate his brother's words, the spirit's scream sounded yet again, this time from very close. Sam heard his brother pump the stock of the shotgun and tensed, waiting for the sound of the shot, but it never came. Instead, he heard Dean let out a sharp grunt, followed almost immediately by a clatter. From the corner of his eye he saw the shotgun tumbling away toward the far end of the barn.

Twisting around, Sam was just in time to see his brother being propelled backward several feet, coming to a sudden stop when his back slammed against one of the barn's support beams. The spirit of Marilyn Adels flickered into view in front of him, one hand pressed against his chest.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, starting to push himself to his feet.

His brother's voice stopped him short. "Just finish it, Sammy!" Dean called, the last part coming out slightly strangled as Marilyn reached out with her other hand and closed an ethereal fist around his throat, lifting him a full foot off the ground and holding him pinned against the support beam.

For a split second Sam froze, his body clenched with indecision. Then he tore his gaze away from the sight of the angry spirit choking his brother and dove back toward the trunk. In a frenzy of panicked motion, he tore the contents from the trunk, scattering old papers, photos and other memorabilia into a haphazard pile around him.

At last he found what he was looking for, a small silver box nestled at the very bottom of the trunk. He yanked the box out, noting dispassionately that it was also locked. Without hesitation he turned and smashed the box down against the ground, breathing a small sigh of relief as it immediately sprang open. A golden lock of hair, tied together with an old piece of string fell from the box to land on the dirt floor.

Resisting the urge to turn around and check on his brother, Sam plunged his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out his lighter. Thumbing it to life in a single flick, he pressed the flame against the lock of hair, holding his breath until it ignited in a flare of flame and smoke.

Sam didn't bother watching it burn. He leapt to his feet, pivoting in time to see Marilyn throw back her head and scream her rage at the rafters one last time before dissipating in a swirling flash of smoke and light. Released from the spirit's hold, Dean slid down the beam to land hard on his backside at its base, his feet splayed out in front of him.

"Dean," Sam called, racing to his brother and bending over him. "You okay?"

Dean blinked blearily up at him, his hand lifting to massage gingerly at his throat. "Yeah," he finally croaked, letting his head fall back against the beam behind him. "That was some crazy strong spirit, Sam."

Sam nodded. "Crazy pissed, too."

"Ya think?" Dean grumbled. "Is it just me, or does it seem to you that the female spirits are just a little more psycho than the male ones?"

Sam shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "They certainly like to throw _you_ around. Maybe it's all that charm and rugged good looks you keep talking about."

"Ah, bite me." Dean growled, before letting his head drop forward with a low moan.

Sam instantly grew serious. "What's wrong?" he asked worriedly, leaning in closer and inspecting his brother's form for any obvious signs of injury.

Dean let out a loud sigh, lifting his head slightly and giving Sam a look of pure misery. "Man, I think I'm sitting in a puddle of water."

Sam blinked, then glanced down, confirming his brother's assessment. He looked up to see a gaping hole in the roof of the barn directly above the support beam, undoubtedly the source of the offending water.

"That sucks," he said evenly, not allowing even a hint of a smile to cross his face. He offered Dean his hand, and after a moment his brother grabbed it, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet with a groan. Sam hovered at his shoulder for a moment, wanting to make sure he was truly alright.

Noticing his perusal, Dean gave him a light shove on his shoulder. "Dude, I'm fine," he grunted, brushing past Sam and heading toward his fallen shotgun. "Let's ditch this place and get back to the hotel. I could use a hot shower and a change of clothes about now."

Sam watched him walk away, then quickly moved to grab up his own gun and follow his brother out of the barn, an open grin on his face now that Dean's back was to him. Not only was his brother's backside completely soaked, but a large glob of mud was smeared down the exact center of the seat of his pants. Sam seriously considered grabbing his cell phone out of his pocket and taking a picture for use as blackmail later, but decided against it.

He did value his life, after all.

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_Sunshine Hotel—Fort Collins, CO_

_1 hour later_

Sam glanced over the top of his laptop toward the bathroom door through which his brother had disappeared over thirty minutes prior, his hands tapping impatiently on the desk in front of him. He glanced down at his watch, then back up at the door.

"Hurry up, Dean," he called, "or we're going to be late."

The words were barely out of his mouth when the door swung open and Dean stepped out, a towel wrapped snugly around his waist and droplets of water still clinging to the tips of his hair. A billow of steam drifted out of the door behind him.

"What's the rush, Sammy?" he asked, moving across the room toward his duffel bag. "It's not like the bars will be closing anytime soon."

"We're not going to a bar," Sam answered simply, turning his gaze back to the laptop in front of him and mentally preparing himself for the battle to come.

From the corner of his eye he saw Dean pause at the foot of the bed, one hand hovering over his duffel. "We're not?" he asked, confusion evident. "We always hit the bars at the end of a hunt, Sammy. It's tradition."

"Well, not tonight," Sam answered firmly, working hard to portray an air of unconcerned nonchalance as he randomly stabbed at a few keys on his keyboard. "I have something else planned."

"Okaaay," Dean answered slowly, drawing the single word out. He still hadn't moved from his position at the foot of the bed, towel around his waist and his hand still hovering over his duffel bag. "Care to share there, little brother?"

Sam sighed, suddenly wishing he had waited until Dean was dressed before broaching this topic.

Snapping his laptop shut, he opted not to answer and instead grabbed the small brochure lying next to his computer and tossed it at his brother. Dean caught the fluttering paper against his chest, glancing down at it. Sam bit his bottom lip, watching as his brother's expression changed from curiosity to outright disbelief.

"Uh uh, no way!" Dean growled, looking up from the brochure to level Sam with a glare. "You've got to be kidding me."

It was precisely the reaction Sam had been expecting. He squared his shoulders, not quite meeting Dean's eyes as he reached down and scooped up his laptop, heading toward his bed.

"Nope, not kidding," he replied, keeping his voice as firm as he could as he began working his laptop into its case. "Remember when you dragged me to that awful movie last weekend when I _really_ didn't want to go? You told me you owed me. Well, this is me collecting."

Dean shook his head incredulously. "I meant I owed you the pick of the next movie!"

Sam shrugged. "I checked the listings…there's nothing good on. This is my pick instead."

Dean stared at Sam as though he had sprouted a pair of horns and was wielding a red pitch fork. "But it's a play, Sam. A play. That crap is for chicks and rich snobs."

"No it's not," Sam argued, tossing his laptop case on top of the bed, and sinking down on the edge of the mattress. "I used to go all the time with my friends at Stanford."

Dean snorted. "Way to prove my point, dude."

Sam stifled a sigh. "Look, I'm going to the play, Dean. You don't have to go with me if you don't want to. You can go to the bar, I'll go to the play, and we'll just meet up back here later."

Even as he said it, Sam knew his brother would never go for it. In the last several weeks, Dean had barely let him out of his sight for a few minutes at a time, and then only when absolutely necessary. Sam knew he was to blame for that…he and the demon Meg. Waking up twice within the space of a few months to find Sam missing had left Dean a little spooked.

Sam found the extra attention wearisome, but he didn't fight it. Maybe if his brother didn't manage to shake it off in the next few weeks… Honestly, Sam didn't really mind the extra scrutiny right now. It meant Dean was paying attention, and that was precisely what Sam needed. His brother knew him better than anyone in the world. If Sam started changing…started going dark, Dean would be the first to notice.

With an effort, Sam diverted the direction of his thoughts. He didn't want to think about what the future might hold for him. It was the whole reason he had chosen the play for tonight over a bar in the first place. While Dean might find distraction in drinking and flirting, Sam rarely was able to, especially lately. He usually ended up sitting at a table nursing a beer, dividing his attention between watching Dean's back and brooding over his possible future. He really needed a night to just sit back, relax, and _not think_.

"Come on Sam…" Dean began, sounding for all the world like a whiney six year old. "You would honestly prefer watching a bunch of grown people dressing up and playing make-believe than sharing a beer and maybe a game or two of pool?"

Sam shrugged. "For tonight? Yeah, I would."

He could clearly remember the few plays he had gone to with Jessica and his friends. He had really enjoyed them, finding it a nice distraction from the stress of school, a few hours escape into another world. That was exactly what Sam was looking for tonight…a few hours escape.

Dean had his lip between his teeth, looking torn, and Sam wondered if the idea of a play was just torture enough in his brother's mind to break him from his watch-dog mode. If so, that hadn't been Sam's intention.

Finally, Dean let out a low growl of defeat, the look he cast Sam promising certain retribution. "Fine, I'll go," he huffed, turning back to his duffel and beginning to rummage through it in search of clean clothes. "But don't expect me to hold your hand and cry with you when Macbeth kills Hamlet."

Sam let out a bark of laughter at that, grinning openly, honestly glad that Dean had decided to join him. "It's not that kind of play, Dean," he commented, rising from the bed and heading toward the bathroom. "Actually, it's a comedy, and the critics have given it really high marks."

"Oh, well if the _critics_ like it, that changes everything," Dean grumbled sarcastically, yanking clothes from his bag with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Make sure you wear a nice shirt and slacks," Sam ordered, quickly slipping into the bathroom and shutting the door. He could have sworn he heard the wood crackling beneath the intense heat of his brother's glare from the other side.

_Well, that went well._

Turning on the faucet, he cupped his hand under the spray, then leaned over and splashed the cool water over his face. Reaching for the nearby hand towel, he dried his face and then regarded his reflection in the mirror. Tired eyes looked back at him from beneath a flop of brown hair, and there was no mistaking the dark smudges under his eyes that had become a permanent fixture of late.

He wasn't sleeping well at night, haunted by nameless nightmares that had him waking up sweating and afraid. His father's final words weighed on him constantly, and try as he might he couldn't seem to shake the sense of foreboding they had ignited in him.

His brother was faring little better. As much as Dean liked to dismissively wave away any talk of Sam going dark, he knew his brother was worried. Dean had promised to save him, and Sam knew his brother would do anything in his power to keep that promise. That didn't keep either of them from worrying about the future, though.

_I just need one night_, Sam thought to himself, still gazing at his reflection in the mirror. _One night to relax and forget._

And maybe, if he was lucky, the night would end up being good for his brother, too.

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The play was almost a disaster.

The problems started early when they arrived at the theatre and Dean discovered that there was no concessions stand selling popcorn, drinks, and candy. Apparently this translated into an all-out disaster in his brother's mind, and Dean had no problem making his displeasure known, completely oblivious of the scandalized glances sent their way.

Sam hurriedly steered his brother from the lobby and into the dim theatre, calming Dean slightly by showing him the hidden stash of treats he had slipped into his jacket pocket for just such an emergency. The peace didn't last long, however. In the minutes before the show started, Dean perused the program they had been handed at the door, snickering at the various strange names of the actors and making obnoxious comments in a loud whisper.

Sam cast apologetic looks at those seated near, then turned a fierce glare on his brother. "Dude, how old_ are_ you?" he hissed, leaning in close.

Dean didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. He merely arched one eyebrow and gave a half shrug of his shoulders. Sam was beginning to suspect that his brother was acting up on purpose…some perverse revenge for making him come here. He resolved to ignore Dean for the remainder of the evening, no matter how annoying he acted.

He breathed a silent sigh of relief when the lights finally went out in the theatre, signaling the start of the show. Moments later he felt his brother's hand rooting around in his jacket pocket for the hidden stash of food. He clenched his jaw, allowing Dean to withdraw a handful of treats, then immediately cringed at the loud crinkling of paper as Dean noisily un-wrapped one of them. He cast a glance back toward the doors, eyeing the ushers stationed there and wondering if they were about to be kicked out of the theatre.

He was beginning to think this hadn't been such a great idea after all. Bringing Dean to a polite social function was much like bringing an elephant into a china store…they just didn't fit, and before the evening was out, _something_ was going to get broken.

Gripping the armrest of his chair, Sam sat tense and expectant, waiting for the next disruption. He was surprised when it never came. Instead, a few minutes into the play, Dean settled back in his chair and actually began to watch the show. Sam remained wary, but after a while it became apparent that his brother was truly engrossed in the action taking place on the stage in front of him, even the pile of treats on his lap temporarily forgotten.

Eventually, Sam dared to allow himself to relax as well, his own attention shifting from his brother to the stage before him. It didn't take long before he was also caught up in the story. It was a good play, the acting smooth and natural, the humor sometimes subtle and sometimes outrageous. At one point in time, Sam heard Dean laugh out loud beside him, and he was surprised at the burst of warmth the sound sent flooding through him. It had been too long since he had heard his brother laugh.

From that moment on, Sam's attention was divided as he spent half his time watching the play and the other half stealing covert glances at his brother from the corner of his eye. It was good to see Dean smiling, and Sam felt some of the tension that had been coiling around his chest for the last several weeks finally ease. It was amazing how a single smile from his brother could fill him with a sense of hope in a way that nothing else ever could.

The play was a long one, lasting over two hours with a brief fifteen minutes intermission in the middle, but by the time it was over, Sam couldn't help but wish it had lasted longer. He felt more relaxed than he had in months.

The trip back to the hotel was spent in silence, Dean focused on the road in front of him and Sam half dozing in the seat beside him. It was vastly different from the other times Sam had enjoyed a play with his friends from Stanford. Then, the trip home was always a noisy one, with everyone discussing their opinions on the performance and critiquing the different actors. He didn't mind the silence this time, though. Dean would never admit it, but Sam knew his brother had enjoyed the evening, and that was enough for him.

He allowed his eyes to drift closed, listening to the familiar growl of the Impala and his brother's soft breathing next to him. He felt his thoughts drifting, memories of Stanford and the life he'd once had there filling his mind, but this time strangely absent of the ache that usually accompanied them. He could feel his body growing heavy and didn't bother fighting the sleep that was flirting with the edges of his consciousness. If he was lucky, tonight would be one of those rare nights without dreams.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew he was jerked awake by something slamming forcefully against his chest. His eyes flew open in confused surprise, but he barely had a chance to draw a breath before he felt the Impala shudder and jerk beneath him. He heard his brother swear loudly from the seat next to him, and then the squeal of tires as Dean hit the brakes. The sudden deceleration of the car would have sent Sam straight into the dash if it weren't for the weight across his chest, effectively pinning him back to the seat. A single glance out the windshield revealed the looming tail-lights of a large black van angled across the road right in front of them.

Dean swore again, jerking the wheel of the Impala to the left in an attempt to avoid the van, but Sam could see that it was going to be too late. He barely had a chance to brace himself before the front right corner of the Impala smashed into the left rear fender of the van with a sickening crunch.

Everything came to a sudden, violent halt.

Sam felt his heart beating wildly in his chest, and he quickly glanced over at Dean to make sure his brother was alright. Dean's jaw was set in a tight line, his left hand gripping the top of the steering wheel in a white-knuckled fist, his right arm splayed out and currently holding Sam pinned back against his seat.

"You alright, Sammy?" his brother growled, his eyes still fixed out the front windshield at the tail-end of the van in front of them.

"Yeah," Sam breathed out, still feeling slightly shaky. "Yeah, I think so."

Dean tore his gaze away from the windshield to look at him then, his sharp gaze doing a quick appraisal as if to assure himself that Sam was telling the truth. "Freaking idiot pulled out right in front of me," he growled, his voice low and furious. "If he hurt my baby…"

And suddenly the weight against Sam's chest was gone as Dean released him to reach for the door handle. Sam recognized the look on his brother's face, and hurried to follow him out of the car. He glanced quickly up and down the street, recognizing it as the road that led to their hotel on the outskirts of town. The street was completely empty except for them and the van.

"Hey, Dean," he called after his brother, who was already striding toward the van. Dean paused, turning back to look at him, and Sam quickly cautioned, "Take it easy, man."

Dean scowled, opening his mouth to reply, but at that instant the sliding doors on the side of the van behind him opened, and a couple of rough looking men jumped out. Without pause the men charged toward Dean, the expressions on their faces making it clear they weren't just planning on exchanging insurance information.

Sam opened his mouth to shout a warning, but there was no need. Dean was already turning, his hunter's instinct having alerted him to the approaching danger. One of the men leapt for him, fists raised, and Dean pivoted smoothly, blocking the clumsily thrown punch and bringing his knee up into his opponent's gut. The man let out a sharp grunt, bending over, and Dean dropped him with a well-aimed chop to the back of his neck. But then the second man was on him, barreling into Dean with enough force to send them both careening back into the side of the Impala.

Sam didn't wait to watch the rest of the fight. Two more men had climbed from the back of the van and were heading for his brother, and one of them was holding a bat. Without hesitation, Sam launched himself across the space where the Impala's bumper met that of the van's, sliding across the hood of the car before coming to his feet on the other side. The man with the bat turned to meet him, raising the wooden club in preparation to strike.

Sam never gave him the chance.

Striking out with an open fist, he used his forward momentum to slam the heel of his hand with violent force straight into the man's sternum. The thug stumbled backward, dropping the bat as his hands automatically came in to clutch at his chest. Sam didn't give him a chance to recover, but followed his first strike with a strong right hook, catching the man in the corner of his jaw. Pain exploded through his fingers and hand, but he ignored it, watching in satisfaction as his opponent fell backward to the street in an undignified sprawl.

Thick arms suddenly snaked around from behind him, trapping his arms against his sides. Sam felt hot breath against the back of his neck, and instantly snapped his head back, feeling another burst of pain as his skull connected with that of his second attacker. The arms around him loosened, and Sam instantly drove his elbows backward, drawing a sharp grunt from the man holding him. He wrenched free, pivoting smoothly and sweeping out with one leg, catching the man right below the knee. The guy stumbled backward, landing hard on his backside in the middle of the street. Sam was about to move in to make sure the man _stayed_ down, when his brother's voice brought him up short.

"Sam."

There was something in Dean's tone that put Sam instantly on alert. He quickly turned toward his brother, then froze, his heart picking up speed inside his chest.

Dean stood several paces away, his second opponent a motionless heap on the ground at his feet. His brother was holding his hands carefully away from his sides, and the reason was instantly clear. Another man had appeared from the darkness, this one much older than the thugs who had jumped them, with features that looked as though they had been chiseled from wood and eyes as cold as any winter. It wasn't his appearance, however, that stopped Sam dead in his tracks; it was the 9mm handgun the man currently had pointed at his brother's head.

"Don't," Sam cried out hoarsely, immediately copying his brother's position, spreading his hands out to either side of him in a sign of surrender. He knew that he was too far away to stop the man if he decided to pull the trigger. He glanced around desperately for some source of help, but the street was still deserted, the shops on either side dark and closed up for the night.

"Very impressive, boys" the older man stated conversationally, "but completely pointless."

Sam met his brother's gaze, silent communication passing between them. Until they knew who they were dealing with, they had to play this safe. On the other hand, the two men Dean had dropped were slowly coming round, and from behind him Sam could hear his own two opponents getting to their feet. The odds against them were shifting by the second.

"I knew you boys wouldn't go down easy," the man continued, the gun in his hand still pointing unwaveringly at Dean's head. "Your reputation precedes you. It's a good thing I was able to outsource a little extra help for your capture." His eyes flickered down to the two groaning men at Dean's feet, and his face twisted in a grimace of disgust. "Not that they did a whole lot of good," he added wryly.

Sam felt his stomach give a nauseating twist at the realization that whoever this man was, he knew them, which meant the attack wasn't just the result of some misunderstanding, but something planned.

"Who are you?" he demanded, still painfully aware of the gun pointed at his brother's head. "What do you want?"

The man cocked his head to one side, as though considering whether or not to answer. He finally gave a little shrug. "We'll talk later," he said dismissively. "But for now, I think it's time we move to somewhere a little more private. And since I doubt you boys will be coming along quietly…"

Sam didn't even have a chance to shout a warning before the man took a single step forward and slammed the butt of his gun forcefully into the side of Dean's head. The blow was hard enough to open a small gash over Dean's left eye, and his legs buckled, his eyes rolling up in his head as he collapsed, boneless, to the ground.

"No!" Sam shouted, lurching forward. He didn't get far before something struck him in the back of the head, causing his vision to explode into thousands of sparkling white lights. He had the vague impression of falling before the darkness swept in and claimed him.

He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

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The return journey to consciousness was not a pleasant one for Dean. The first sensation he became aware of was a piercing pain throughout his head, as though someone were trying to shove a poker from one side of his skull to the other. The more he became aware, the sharper the pain became, until he desired nothing more than to sink back into the darkness and escape the agony for a while longer.

Unfortunately, his body had other ideas.

As the darkness receded, several sensations began to barter for his attention. First, he became aware of the fact that he was thirsty, his mouth uncomfortably dry and his throat scratchy. Second, the nausea made itself known, a slow rolling of his stomach that made him feel as though he were about to be sick. Lastly, and perhaps most absurdly, an itch on the left side of his face was growing increasingly annoying, clamoring for his immediate attention.

Dean tried to lift a hand to scratch at the persistant itch, but though his brain clearly sent the command to his arm to move, nothing happened. He blinked open bleary eyes, somewhat startled to find he was staring down into his own lap. A slight move of his head to one side, and he suddenly knew why his hand refused to obey his brain. Both his wrist were tied securely to the arms of his chair, the ropes heavy and tight. A shift of his shoulders told him that more ropes were looped around his chest, binding him securely to the chair.

_Well, crap, that can't be good_.

As soon as he made this first realization, another came quick on its heels. He recognized the cottony feel to his mouth, the sick churn in his stomach, and the fuzzy quality to his thoughts.

They were all indicators that he had been drugged, and if he was reading his body correctly, that was on top of a knock to the head. Not a good sign at all.

He tried to marshal his thoughts…to pull the sticky fragments of memory from the quagmire of his mind, but before he could make much headway, he was interrupted by a low groan from somewhere close by. He slowly inched his head up, fighting off the pain in his skull and the rolling sickness in his stomach. He was pretty sure he hadn't eaten anything recently, because if he had, he would be wearing it down the front of his shirt by now.

It took a while for his eyes to focus…_now that really wasn't good_…but eventually his vision cleared and he was able to make out his brother's slumped form in another chair a few feet away. Sam was bound as he was, his head hanging limply down his chest, a curtain of dark hair hiding his features. Even as Dean watched, Sam's head rocked slightly from side to side and another low moan sounded from deep in his throat.

Dean sat up straighter, taking a deep breath and pushing his own discomfort aside as he focused on his brother. "Sam?" He called softly, grimacing as his voice came out sounding rough and gravelly. He cleared his throat and tried again with marginally better results. "Hey Sammy, can you hear me?"

His brother let out another low moan, his head continuing to shake slightly as he struggled toward consciousness. Dean watched him worriedly, trying to coax him on as best he could with his words.

"That's it, Sam. Come on and open your eyes. You can do it. Wake up and look at me, man."

Very slowly Sam's head came up, his bleary eyes searching out and finally focusing on Dean. "D'n" he muttered, swallowing hard and licking his dry lips. "You 'kay?"

Dean smiled at his brother, feeling something caked on the left side of his face pull and crack at the movement. He couldn't see it, but guessed that it was most likely dried blood, which would explain the pain…and the itch. "I was just about to ask you the same thing, little brother. Feeling a bit hazy?"

Sam smacked his lips, rolling his tongue and grimacing in disgust. "Mouth feels bad," he muttered.

Dean nodded, then immediately wished he hadn't as his head and stomach objected violently to the movement. "Yeah, I think we've been drugged," he stated, giving the ropes binding him an experimental tug.

Sam grunted, then began peering blearily around. "Where are we?" he asked, still sounding slightly dazed.

Dean followed his brother's gaze around the large room, noting the dusty crates and boxes lining the walls, a rusty piece of unidentifiable machinery in one corner, and the single heavy metal door directly in front of them. "Not sure," he replied, "but if I had to guess I would say we're in some sort of abandoned warehouse or old storage shed, though I'm drawing a blank on how exactly we got here."

Sam blinked at him, and Dean could practically see his brother's oversized brain struggling to wake up…to remember exactly how they had gotten into this mess. Dean left him to it, his own head hurting too much to put much effort into any kind of thought.

"I think we were in an accident?" Sam stated a moment later, his brow wrinkled in thought.

This certainly woke Dean up. "Accident?" he repeated, even as his memory supplied him with a sudden montage of images; a black van pulling out in front of him, trying to swerve, the sickening crunch of metal on metal… "My car," he groaned, closing his eyes and dropping his head.

"I think we have bigger problems right now, Dean," Sam pointed out, not unkindly. "I remember some thugs jumping us, and then this older guy hit you with his gun."

"Yeah," Dean winced. His memory was slowly starting to return to him, and while he didn't remember the hit that had knocked him out, his head certainly did. "Any idea who they were?"

Sam frowned, his brow knitted in thought. "No, but they seemed to know who _we_ are."

"Not exactly reassuring," Dean sighed. "Did they say anything about what they wanted? You know…after they knocked me senseless."

Sam slowly shook his head, wincing in obvious discomfort. "Afraid not. They knocked me out right after you."

"Huh," Dean grunted. "Well, whatever it is, I'd rather figure it out from the other side of these ropes." He gave another experimental tug against his bonds, disappointed to find that there was no give in the thick cords.

Before he could even feel disappointed, the heavy metal door across from them suddenly swung open with a creaking bang, and two men stepped through the opening and into the room.

Dean immediately recognized the two goons who had been fighting Sam. The first was tall and thin, with long blond hair held back in a simple tie at the nape of his neck. He was in his early thirties, his lips pulled up in what looked to be a permanent sneer. His companion was slightly younger, shorter and more muscular, with thick arms covered in an assortment of tattoos. He too had blond hair, though he wore it cut short. He might have been handsome, if it weren't for the long scar marring the left side of his face, running from just below his eye down to the corner of his mouth. The facial similarities of both men immediately marked them as family…probably brothers. Both sported livid bruises on their faces; Long-Hair on the corner of his jaw and Scar-Face high on his forehead, compliments of Sam, no doubt.

_Way to go, little brother_

"Well look who's finally awake," Scar-Face drawled, eying the two prisoners with a nasty grin. "Now we can finally get down to business."

Dean felt an instant surge of strong dislike for the man, and his voice was tight as he answered, "Look, Sam, it's Hansel and Gretel, come to say hello." He flashed a quick grin and a wink at Scar-Face, adding, "Looking good there, Gretel."

The taunt was on purpose. Dean had learned long ago that if you could ruffle your enemies' feathers, get them off guard or angry, then you already had an advantage over them; they would talk more, think less, and often act carelessly. The trick was learning how much you could get away with without ending up with a bullet to the brain.

Apparently Scar-Face's threshold for taking insults was pretty low. A look of raw anger swept over his disfigured features, and he stalked forward, a dangerous glint to his eyes. For a moment, Dean thought the man was going to deck him, but instead he merely leaned over, resting his hands on Dean's bound arms and leaning his face in close, causing Dean to draw his head back as far as the chair would allow in an effort to keep some space between them.

"You think your smart there, eh tough guy?" he asked, his hot breath washing over Dean's face.

Dean turned his face away, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "Smarter than you," he shot back, then quickly drove his knee up and out, straight into the man's unprotected groin.

It was a rash move, and Dean knew it, but he couldn't bring himself to care all that much. These goons had hurt Sam, hurt his car, and then trussed them up like two helpless pigs ready for slaughter, and Dean was just plain pissed. So he didn't stop there. As Scar-face stumbled back, doubling over, his hands dropping to cup his crotch, Dean struck out again, this time with his foot, hitting the man right above his left knee. Restricted by his bound position in the chair, the blow wasn't nearly as strong as Dean would have liked, but it was still enough to send the already unbalanced man tumbling backward to the floor.

"Hey!" Seeing his companion go down, Long-Hair lunged forward, dodging around behind Dean's chair and grabbing a handful of his hair, jerking his head back roughly. Dean had to bite his lip to hold back a cry at the fiery spikes of pain that ripped through him at the rough treatment to his already abused skull.

"That was really stupid, asshole," Long-Hair growled from behind, his fingers tightening in Dean's hair. "Really stupid."

"Let him go," Sam shouted, and from the corner of his eye Dean could see his brother struggling wildly against his bonds.

Dean closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing deeply in an effort to get back in control and block out the pain. He had only managed to take a couple of breaths when he felt iron hard fingers gripping his jaw. He opened his eyes to see Scar-face glaring down at him, and this time the man wasn't just angry…he was furious.

"Big mistake, pretty boy," he growled, a knife suddenly appearing in his hand. Dean felt his breath catch in his throat as the knife point came forward, resting right beneath his left eye. "You like my scar, pretty boy?" Scar-Face taunted, pressing the blade tight against Dean's skin. "Your father gave it to me three year ago. Maybe I return the favor, eh?" The blade pressed in.

"Enough!"

The cold voice rang out through the small room, filled with authority. Dean gasped in relief as the blade suddenly lifted, leaving behind a single tear drop of blood that slowly ran down his cheek and off his chin. Long-Hair released him just as Scar-Face took a quick step back, and Dean was able to see past him to the newcomer standing just inside the metal doorway. He was unsurprised to see that it was the older man from earlier…the one to which he owed his current colossal headache. Of course, seeing as the man had just saved him from permanent disfigurement, Dean felt he could probably forgive him the bump to the head.

He flashed a quick glance toward his brother, finding Sam watching him with wide eyes, his muscles straining against the ropes binding him to the chair. Taking in a shaky breath, Dean tried to give him a reassuring smile.

"I believe my instructions were to notify me as soon as they woke up." The newcomer's voice was deceptively calm, but there was an underlining tone of anger that was impossible to miss.

"Sorry, sir," Long-Hair muttered from behind Dean, his voice contrite. "He attacked Joseph so we were just teaching him a little lesson."

"Yeah," Scar-face agreed, still glaring down at Dean with pure hatred, his knife gripped tightly in one fist. "The little punk kicked me in the jewels!"

The older man sighed, moving forward further into the room. "I warned you boys before not to underestimate them," he replied calmly, "and now twice you have almost let them get the best of you. If I hadn't hired those two punks from the bar, we probably wouldn't have managed to capture them at all."

"We had it covered," Scar-Face grumbled, but the older man simply raised his hand sharply, cutting off any further argument.

His cold gaze moved to fix on the two prisoners. "Sam and Dean Winchester," he murmured softly, regarding them critically through narrowed eyes. "I hope my boys weren't too rough with you?"

Dean merely snorted, not bothering to reply as he glared up at the man, his arms flexing against the tight ropes binding him to the chair.

"Who are you?" Sam demanded from beside him. "What the hell do you want with us?"

The older man's gaze shifted to Sam, and he smiled, though the expression never reached his cold eyes. "Well now," he stated, "I can see you want to cut the small talk and get right down to business. I can deal with that." He turned his gaze to Long-Hair. "Eli, would you mind getting me a chair?" he asked.

Long-Hair moved from behind Dean, crossing the room to a stack of wooden chairs piled against the far wall. Pulling one free, he returned and set it down facing Sam and Dean, taking up a protective stance behind it, Scar-Face moving to join him.

"Thank you," the older man murmured, sitting down in the chair and returning his attention to his two prisoners.

"Who are you?" Sam demanded again, his voice harsh and angry.

The older man regarded him for a moment before answering with a slight shrug. "My name is Jeffram Connley," he stated easily. "These are my boys, Joseph and Eli." He nodded his head casually in the direction of first Scar-Face and then Long-Hair. "We're old…_acquaintances_…of your father."

"That right?" Dean growled. "So what did the old man do? Piss in your Wheaties?"

Jeffram gave Dean a tolerant smile. "Your father stole something from me," he replied coolly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Something of great value. Something that has been with my family for hundreds of years."

Dean arched one eyebrow. "That's too bad," he replied blandly, his face expressionless. "What does that have to do with Sam and me?"

Jeffram gave a small shrug. "I'll admit, I'd much rather be talking with your father right now, but I will have to settle for you two instead. I have to admit, you were easier to track down than your old man. We've been trying to find him for quite some time."

"Yeah?" Dean ground out. "Well, in that case, why don't I tell you exactly where you can find him, and you can go and join him right now." He felt something clench in his gut, just as it always did when he was forced to think of his father's death. He clamped his jaw shut hard and glared at Jeffram, channeling the pain into anger.

Jeffram merely shook his head. "I know your father is dead, Dean. It was how we were finally able to track you down. The hospital where he died had your number on file, and I was able to use it to track you."

"What is it you want?" Sam demanded, his own voice tight with emotion. "Revenge?"

Jeffram pinned Sam with his cold gaze. "I simply want back what your father stole from me. Nothing else."

"What was it?" Dean asked, curiosity rising up to share a place alongside his anger.

Jeffram turned back to look at him, his expression considering. "It was a dagger," he finally stated. "A very old dagger. It had a single red ruby in the hilt, and etched runes along the length of the blade. Your father stole it from us three years ago this past December outside Reno, Nevada. "

"Why?" Dean asked, his voice suspicious. "Why would my dad steal your dagger?"

Jeffram's eyes narrowed and he gave a slight shrug. "Why does anyone steal anything? Greed, probably. As I said before, the dagger is very old and very valuable."

Dean didn't bother holding back his incredulous snort. John Winchester had been many things in life, but greedy was never one of them. The only thing his father had been greedy for was revenge. If he had taken the Connley's dagger, then there had been a reason for it; a reason that Jeffram obviously didn't wish to share.

"Well, I hate to break it to you, pal, but we have no clue where your stupid dagger is," Dean growled, growing impatient. "This might surprise you, but our dad wasn't exactly the sharing and caring type. If he really did take your dagger, he never told us about it."

Jeffram pursed his lips thoughtfully, studying Dean's face intently as though trying to discern if he was telling the truth. "Maybe," he finally replied, "Maybe not. It doesn't really matter at this point. If anyone can find that dagger, it would be you two."

"How do you know our father even kept it?" Sam interjected, his voice earnest. "He could have destroyed it or gotten rid of it."

Jeffram shook his head. "He didn't destroy it," he stated with absolute certainty. "He hid it. We have been trying to track him down for three years, but John always managed to stay a step ahead of us. Until he died, of course. Now I have his boys, and one way or another you two will find that dagger and return it to me."

"Ah, well, since you asked so nicely," Dean ground out sarcastically. "Just untie us and we'll get right on that…"

Jeffram actually smiled, though the expression was far from pleasant on his cold face. "Now, now, Dean. I'm perfectly aware that the only way I'll get you to return my dagger is if I hold something you want equally as bad as a bargaining chip."

"Yeah?" Dean snorted, "And what exactly would that be?"

Jeffram didn't reply, merely smiled, holding his hand out toward his oldest son. "Eli, do you have them?" he asked simply.

The long haired man wordlessly fished in his jacket pocket, pulling out two long vials, one colored green and the other blue. He handed both vials to Jeffram.

What's that?" Sam asked, eying the vials nervously.

"This," Jeffram stated, holding the green bottle up so both men could see it clearly. "This is poison, dear Sam…and a pretty nasty poison at that. My son Eli made it. He's what you might call an alchemist, of sorts. Poisons have been a hobby of his since he was young. It took him years to develop this particular one, and only _we_ have the antidote." He held up the second vial, shaking it tauntingly.

Dean exchanged a quick glance with Sam before returning his gaze to Jeffram. "Look, we really don't know where your dagger is," he insisted forcefully, eyeing the green bottle warily.

Jeffram shrugged. "Then I suggest you find it. Quickly. Consider this…motivation."

"Which one, Dad?" Eli asked, eyeing the two prisoners with a hungry glint in his eyes.

"The older one," Joseph suggested eagerly, giving Dean a nasty smile. "I say we use it on the older one."

Dean felt his muscles tense as Jeffram's gaze settled on him, cold and calculating. The older man gave a small shrug, and Eli and Joseph immediately moved forward, positioning themselves on either side of his chair.

"No," Sam shouted, struggling desperately against his bonds. "Listen, you don't have to do this. We'll find your dagger, you have my word. Just let us go and we'll get it for you. You don't need the poison."

Jeffram shook his head, rising from his chair and slipping the blue vial into his jacket pocket before uncapping the green one. "It doesn't work that way, Sam," he stated dismissively, before turning his attention back to Dean. "Now Dean, we can do this the easy way or the hard."

Dean glared at the man, clenching his jaw firmly shut and raising his chin defiantly.

"Very well," Jeffram said indifferently, motioning to his boys with a wave of one hand. Joseph reached out and grabbed Dean by his hair once again, yanking his head back until it rested on the back of the chair. At the same time, Eli reached out and grabbed Dean's jaw in one hand while the other pinched his nose closed.

"No," Sam cried out, still struggling wildly in his chair. "Stop!"

Dean let out a low growl from the base of his throat, struggling to keep his jaw firmly shut while his body began screaming for oxygen. He tried to shake his head free of the hands holding him, but their grip was too tight.

With his free hand, Joseph reached down and punched Dean forcefully in the side. Dean grunted, the combination of pain and lack of air leaving him reeling. When Joseph punched him a second time, he couldn't help but gasp, the need for air overwhelming all other instincts.

Instantly, Jeffram was there, forcing the neck of the vial into his mouth, splashing acrid liquid across his tongue and down his throat. Dean tried to spit it back out, but a third blow to his side had him chocking and gasping, and without meaning to he found himself swallowing. He immediately gagged, the vile taste of the poison coating his tongue and the back of his mouth. His stomach roiled, bile building in the back of his throat. Again he tried to spit, but Eli held his jaw firmly closed, and a moment later Dean felt a wide strip of duct tape pressed down over his mouth, effectively sealing his lips closed.

_Ah, crap!_

The hands holding him finally released him, and Dean let his head fall forward wearily, breathing heavily through his nose, his eyes closing tightly as he fought down the nausea building in his stomach. He vaguely heard Sam calling out his name worriedly, but he was too focused on not throwing up to respond.

"Find my dagger," Jeffram ordered harshly. "You have forty-eight hours, give or take a few, before the poison kills him. Get me my dagger before then, and we'll give you the antidote."

"Forty-eight hours?" Sam gasped, his voice desperate. "What if we can't find it before then?"

Dean forced his eyes open, lifting his head to look up at Jeffram. The man stared back down at him coldly, not a hint of pity in his dark eyes. "Then your brother dies, Sam," he replied simply.

Jeffram turned on his heels, walked over to his vacated chair and dropped a slip of paper onto its seat. Then he glanced back over his shoulder. "Once you have my dagger, call the number on the paper and we'll arrange a meeting place. Remember, forty-eight hours."

And with that final warning, he and his sons walked from the room, swinging the iron door shut behind them with a resounding clang.

TBC

_A/N—Hope you like so far. Let me know what you think. I love all reviews. This story is mostly complete and I expect to update every week until it is finished. _


	2. Chapter 2

_**Thank you so much for all of you who reviewed and/or favorite this story. Sorry for the late update, but I was away from home for the holidays. Hope you enjoy…**_

**Chapter 2**

It took Sam just under an hour to break free of the ropes binding him; an hour of tense muscles, raw skin, and mumbled curses. In the end, it was the smooth linen material of his dress shirt that provided him enough slippage to finally yank one hand loose. After that, it was just a matter of picking at the knots securing his other hand and the loop around his chest before he was free.

Slipping from the last of the ropes, Sam quickly rose, then paused, his eyes closed as his head throbbed and a wave of dizziness threatened to send him back down into the chair. A moment later the feeling passed, allowing him to open his eyes and move over to Dean, kneeling before him. Casting his brother an apologetic look, he reached up and pulled the duct tape off his mouth in one quick yank.

Dean winced, but said nothing, merely turned his head and spat heavily onto the dirty floor, his face twisted in a grimace of disgust.

"You okay?" Sam asked quietly, setting to work on the ropes binding his brother's arms.

"Peachy," Dean growled in reply. "Besides the taste in my mouth. That crap tasted like…well, crap."

Sam shook his head, his sore fingers picking relentlessly at the tight knots. "Yeah well, next time you get poisoned you can be sure to ask for the grape flavor."

He couldn't keep the bite from his words. Being forced to watch helplessly as those goons had forced the poison down his brother's throat had been pure torture. And the fear was still there, quickening his heartbeat and stealing his breath.

_Forty-eight hours. _

Sam could almost hear the clock inside his head, slowly ticking down the minutes of his brother's life. It made his hands shake, making his job that much more difficult.

"So, you think they were telling the truth?" He asked quietly, biting his lip as he worked at the stubborn knots. His vision kept blurring, complicating things even further. _Stupid drugs!_

"'Bout what?" Dean replied distractedly. Sam glanced up to find his brother staring distantly across the room, chewing his bottom lip, his expression thoughtful.

"You know," Sam huffed, "about _everything_. Dad, the dagger...?"

Dean pulled his gaze down to Sam, looking at him silently for a moment before giving a small shrug. "Sure. I guess. I mean, I don't see what reason they would have to lie."

"Great," Sam muttered, turning his attention back to the ropes. "That's just great, Dean. Do you have any idea how screwed we are?" This last was said with slightly more force than he had intended, but Dean's voice was annoyingly calm when he replied.

"Relax, Sammy. Everything's gonna be fine."

Sam stopped his knot picking to stare up at his brother incredulously, but Dean was no longer looking at him, his gaze once again lost somewhere distant. Sam clenched his jaw, swallowing down his retort and returning his attention once again to his task, leaving Dean to his thoughts. They would have time enough to argue about their present level of screwed-ness once his brother was free. He was pretty certain of one thing, though; Dean would not be so calm about all this if _Sam_ had been the one poisoned.

It seemed to take forever, but eventually the last of the ropes fell loose and Dean was free. His brother stood up quickly, then, just as Sam had, he paused, his eyes slipping closed as he swayed on the spot for a moment. Sam rose, brows knitted in concern, but before he could even reach for his brother's arm to help steady him, Dean was off, making a beeline for the door.

Swallowing down a sigh, Sam followed, stopping long enough to pick up the slip of paper from the chair and stuffing it in his pants pocket without a glance.

He was afraid that Jeffram had locked the heavy iron door behind him, but when Dean reached it he pulled it open without a problem, glancing back at Sam with raised eyebrows.

"Think our _friends_ are still here?"

Sam shook his head. "Probably long gone. Doesn't mean we shouldn't be careful, though."

Dean nodded his agreement. He led the way through the door, Sam right on his heels, both of them moving steadily but cautiously. It took them less than two minutes to find the door leading outside, all with no sign of Jeffram or his two sons. As fortunate as that was, it was nothing compared to the sight that greeted them as they finally pushed through the last door and into the brisk dawn air.

"Oh thank God," Dean gasped, relief evident in his voice as he rushed forward toward the shiny black car parked in front of the warehouse. Sam followed after, watching as Dean ran a loving hand over the Impala's hood before stepping back and slowly circling the car, his sharp gaze checking for damage.

Sam let out a deep sigh, feeling his own relief at the sight of the Impala. He had been afraid they would have to waste precious hours hunting down the car and possibly breaking it out of an impound lot. It was time they didn't have, and he was grateful for whatever small piece of luck had landed on their side for once.

"How is it?" Sam asked, walking up beside the car as Dean crouched next to the front right hood.

"The headlight is broken," Dean replied grimly, "and there's a dent to the fender, but nothing I can't fix."

"Think she's good to drive?" Sam asked.

Dean straightened. "There's only one way to find out," he replied, moving around the front of the car to the driver's side door. Pulling the door open, he leaned inside, casting Sam a quick grin over his shoulder. "They left the keys," he stated triumphantly, reaching out and twisting them in the ignition, causing the car to start with its customary roar. Moving back to the front, Dean lifted the hood and peered down at the engine, squinting in the dim light. Sam moved to stand beside him, though in all honesty he had no idea what he was looking at.

After a few minutes of poking around and checking connections, Dean finally seemed satisfied. "Looks good to me," he declared. "We lucked out on this one; the impact didn't knock anything loose. Most of the damage is just superficial. Give me a day at Bobby's and she'll look good as new."

"Great, but that will have to wait," Sam said forcefully. "We have bigger problems right now remember?"

Dean grunted, stepping back and letting the hood fall closed with a slam. "You mean the fact that I'll be wearing a pine overcoat in about forty-eight hours?"

"Less than forty-six, now," Sam retorted, "and it's not a joke, Dean. We have to find this dagger fast, and we don't have even a clue where to start looking for it!"

Dean turned to face him, his brows drawn together in a thoughtful expression. "That may not be entirely true…" he said slowly.

"What?" Sam demanded. "What do you know that you're not telling me, Dean? Did Dad tell you about the dagger? Do you know where it is?"

Dean quickly put up his hands, cutting off Sam's barrage of questions. "Take it easy, Sam. No, Dad did not tell me about the dagger, and no, I don't know for sure where it is."

"For sure…" Sam repeated, a flutter of hope igniting in his chest. "But that means you at least have an idea, right?"

Dean shrugged, leaning one hip against the front of the Impala and crossing his arms across his chest. "Jeffram said Dad stole the dagger from him three years ago last December, right?"

Sam frowned. "Yeah, I think so. Why?"

Dean pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing. "I've been thinking back, trying to remember where exactly Dad and I were at that time.

"And…" Sam prompted.

"And," Dean replied, "I remembered that we had split up. I was down in Texas investigating a chupacabra sighting and Dad was in California on the tail of a demon. He finished before I did and called to say he was on his way to check out another possible hunt…in Nevada. He didn't give me any details, but we made plans to meet up in a week…right before Christmas."

Dean paused, his eyes looking past Sam into the distance. Sam waited for him to go on, his fist nervously tapping against the side of his leg. He didn't know why, but it was always tough for him to listen to stories of hunts Dean had been on while he was away at Stanford. He could never stop the stab of guilt he always felt, knowing Dean and their dad had been facing danger almost every day, while he had been safe and happy in his new life.

"A few days before we were supposed to meet," Dean continued, "Dad calls me and tells me he won't be able to meet up, that he has to run by Pastor Jim's to drop something off. He sounded…I don't know…a little off. I asked him about it, but…well, you know how Dad was."

Sam swallowed, nodding. He was only too aware of his father's closed off, need-to-know attitude. It had been the cause of none too few arguments between them

"Anyway, when we did finally get together, I saw him hide something in the trunk of the car. I checked it out later, and it was a key. I never did get him to tell me what happened, but the key is still there in the trunk."

Sam chewed on his lower lip, his mind racing. "So, you think Dad's hunt in Nevada was these guys?" he asked slowly. "You think he stole the dagger and took it to Pastor Jim's, hid it somewhere, and the key opens wherever it is that he put it?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah…that's the theory."

Sam sighed, running a hand through his long hair and down to grip the back of his neck. "I don't know, Dean," he replied. "It sounds pretty thin to me."

Dean straightened from his slouch against the car. "Maybe, but the timeframe fits, and it's all we've got."

Sam closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think of anything they might be missing, the headache pulsing behind his eyes making it difficult to concentrate.

"Listen, Sam, if you have a better idea, then I'm all ears. But I have a gut feeling about Pastor Jim's."

This got Sam's attention, and he opened his eyes to look at his brother, a small frown on his face. He had learned long ago to trust Dean's gut feelings, his brother's instincts honed and sharp from a lifetime of hunting and fighting. And truthfully, it wasn't like they had a whole lot of other options. Still, Dean's life rested on them making the right decision, and Sam didn't even want to _think_ about the consequences if they made the wrong one.

"Alright," he said slowly, letting out a long, deep breath. "It looks like we're going to Blue Earth."

Dean flashed him a quick grin, reaching out and clapping him on the shoulder as he moved toward the driver's side door. Sam automatically began moving toward the passenger side before he suddenly hesitated, glancing toward his brother, taking in his pale features and the dried blood on the side of his head.

"Think you're okay for driving?" he asked quickly, just as Dean was moving to swing into the seat.

Dean paused, looking at him with arched eyebrows, one hand rising to scratch at the dried blood on the side of his face. "Dude, I've driven farther with worse."

Sam nodded, knowing it was the truth, but he couldn't help adding, "Well, just let me know if you need a break."

Dean rolled his eyes, giving Sam a look that clearly stated, "Shut up and get in the car."

It didn't take them long to figure out their location…somewhere along the river…and after that it was just a matter of finding the closest entrance to the interstate. Dean took them back to their hotel first, a twenty minute side trip that had Sam chewing at his lip in frustration at the delay. All their stuff was at the hotel, including most of their weapons and their first-aid bag, and Sam knew they really had no choice but to go back for it, as much as he didn't like it.

The trip was made mostly in silence, and as soon as they arrived Sam launched himself from the car, digging in his pockets for the room key, unwilling to waste even a minute of precious time. Dean followed behind, a wry smile tugging up the corners of his mouth when Sam dropped the keys in his haste to get them into the lock.

"Dude, this is going to be a marathon, not a sprint," he warned. "You stay this tense for the whole trip and you'll end up constipated for a week."

Sam spared him a quick glare before turning his attention back to the keys. Dean might joke around all he wanted, but Sam knew he wouldn't be able to relax until they reached Blue Earth and the dagger was in their possession. No, scratch that, he wouldn't be able to relax until they had traded the dagger for the antidote and Dean had drunk it. One way or another, it promised to be a long two days.

The door finally swung open and Sam strode quickly into the room. He hastily began gathering up their belongings, tossing them into the duffel bags, not really caring what went where. Dean brushed past him, heading toward the bathroom. Sam continued packing as he watched Dean turn on the sink and begin to gingerly clean away the dried blood from his hair and the side of his face.

Seeing his brother grimace in pain as he dabbed at the cut on his brow, Sam diverted from his current task and headed for the first-aid kit. He quickly located the bottle of pain-killers and shook several into his palm. Swallowing two of them himself, he carried the rest to the bathroom, holding them out to his brother without comment. Dean glanced at him, then took the pills with a muttered thanks.

Sam nodded, then returned to his original task. A moment later Dean joined him, and they worked quickly and quietly, packing their few belongings in record time. Less than five minutes after they had arrived, they were back in the car, their bags stowed in the trunk and the Impala speeding toward the interstate.

They were a half hour out of Fort Collins before Sam finally broke the silence. "Hey, Dean?"

His brother grunted, casting him a quick sideways glance to let him know he was listening.

"I've been thinking a lot about this dagger. There had to be a reason Dad took it, and a reason why Connley wants it back so bad. I mean, who goes to all this trouble just for a knife?"

"They don't," Dean replied gruffly, his eyes never leaving the road in front of him. "Not unless it's something pretty damn special. And I don't know about you, but I'm not really buying the whole 'family heirloom' crap."

Sam shook his head, his hands tapping an impatient pattern on his thighs. "We need to know more about this, Dean. I don't like going in blind. We need to know who…and what…we're dealing with here."

Dean shot him a quick glance before turning his attention back to the road. "What are you suggesting…finding the nearest library? We don't exactly have a lot of time to spare for research here, Sammy."

"Maybe not," Sam replied, shifting in his seat so he could reach in his pocket for his phone. "But I know someone who may be able to help."

Dean's gaze flickered to the phone in Sam's hands, his expression turning thoughtful. "Bobby?" he asked.

Sam nodded, already pulling up the older hunter's number in his call list. "Why not? Dad always used to call him when he needed help researching something. That is, before he pissed Bobby off and got run off the property with a shotgun."

Dean shrugged. "Couldn't hurt," he agreed.

Finally finding the number he was looking for, Sam punched the connect button with his thumb and brought the phone up to his ear. Listening to the ringing on the other end of the line, he could only hope that their old friend was home…and that he would be able to help them.

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Bobby slung the front door to his house open and stalked inside, kicking off his mud-caked boots in the entryway and shrugging out of his rain soaked coat. He was just returning home from a hunting trip in the heart of the Black Hills, where he had spent two days tracking down an elusive werewolf. There had once been a time when hiking for two days through dense woods and steep terrain in the pouring rain wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest, but those days were long gone. He wasn't as young as he used to be, and this hunt had left him bone weary, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

He switched his wet ball-cap out for a dry one from the hook by the door, and then walked wearily into the heart of the house. He paused in the kitchen entryway, debating trying to round up something for breakfast before hitting the sack.

Finally deciding that the need for sleep outweighed the need for food, he moved on past the kitchen and headed toward the stairs. He had just placed his foot on the bottom most step when the phone in his study began to ring, the noise surprisingly loud in the otherwise silent house. Bobby hesitated, seriously debating ignoring it.

"Ah hell," he finally grumbled, turning from the stairs and heading toward the phone. He half hoped it would stop ringing before he reached it, but had no such luck. Grabbing up the receiver and tucking it against his ear, he growled roughly, "This had better be important."

There was a small pause on the other end of the line before a hesitant voice spoke up, "Bobby? Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Bobby swallowed his sigh, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing the pads of his thumbs against his lids. "It's alright, Sam. I just got back from a hunt and I'm a little tired, is all."

"Oh"…Another pause…"Sorry."

Bobby sank down in the chair behind his desk, stretching sore muscles. "Don't be," he answered gruffly. "What do you need, Sam?"

"Well, Dean and I are in a bit of trouble…"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "And why doesn't that surprise me. What kind of trouble?"

Another hesitation, and when Sam finally spoke Bobby could hear the frustration in the kid's voice. "Well, we're not really sure, yet. That's what we were kinda hoping you could help us find out."

Bobby spared a longing glance toward the stairway leading up to his room, before resolutely twisting in his chair and turning his back to it. "Tell me what happened," he ordered gruffly.

"It's a long story,"Sam warned.

"Good thing I get free long distance," Bobby growled sarcastically in response. "I can't help you until I know what's happening, Sam, so get talking.

A small sigh, and then Sam did just that, filling Bobby in on the events of the previous evening. Bobby listened quietly, letting Sam tell the story without interruption, a slow frown working its way across his features. He absently played with a pencil on the desk in front of him, his mind absorbing every detail of Sam's story.

"So we're heading to Blue Earth,"Sam finished several minutes later, "and we were hoping you might be able to scare up some information on the Connley's and their dagger."

"Of course," Bobby nodded, already mentally going through a list of sources in his head that might be useful. "How's Dean?" he added, subconsciously lowering his voice even though he was alone in the house.

Sam cleared his throat, hesitating briefly before replying in a forced casual voice. "Okay…for now."

"Yeah, well, just keep an eye on him," Bobby replied, knowing the advice was unnecessary. Sam would likely be hovering over Dean like a mother bird over her chicks for the next couple of days.

"Yeah, I will,"Sam replied quietly.

"So, how long did you say he has?" Bobby asked, tapping the end of his pencil against his lips.

"Less than forty-eight hours,"Sam replied, the fear and worry in his voice unmistakable.

Bobby sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes and trying to ignore the knot of worry forming in his own stomach. "It's a good plan, Sam," he stated, sensing the boy was in need of some assurance. "Your daddy spent a lot of time at Jim's place. It was kinda his home base, if you know what I mean. If he needed a place to hide something, that would be _my_ first guess."

"Yeah…I hope so."

Sam still sounded worried and uncertain, but Bobby couldn't really blame the kid. They were taking a gamble, and it was Dean's life hanging in the balance. There was simply no way to feel good about _any_ kind of plan with that fact staring you in the face.

Bobby cleared his throat. "Now listen, Sam. Pastor Jim's place passed to the church after he died. A hunter friend of mine who lived in the area went in and cleaned out some of his hunting supplies, but I know for a fact Jim had a hidden stash in the church. I've been meaning to get up there to go through it all myself, but haven't had the time. My guess is your dagger will be somewhere there.

"Dean said Dad hid a key in the trunk."

Bobby nodded, even though Sam couldn't see him. "Good, that might help you narrow it down a bit. I'll call you boys as soon as I find some answers. In the meantime, watch your backs, alright?"

"Yeah, we will," Sam answered, his voice low. "Thanks Bobby,"

"Don't mention it," Bobby growled, then ended the call by replacing the receiver in its cradle. He sat at his desk for a long moment, gazing unseeing into space. Finally, he pulled his mind back to the present and levered himself to his feet. Walking to the kitchen, he made a beeline for the coffee pot, knowing that he would need the caffeine to stay awake now that sleep was off the agenda.

His boys needed him, and Bobby was determined not to let them down.

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"Hey Dean, I'm going to go inside and grab us something to eat. Any requests?"

Dean looked up at Sam from his position at the rear of the Impala, the gas pump nozzle held loosely in one hand. His stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch at the mention of food, but he merely shrugged, calling out, "Surprise me."

Sam nodded, turning and heading into the station.

Dean waited until his brother had disappeared inside before slumping one hip against the trunk and running a shaky hand down his face. They had been on the road for nearly four hours without stop, and Dean should have been feeling ravenous. Instead, he merely felt sick. His muscles ached, his head throbbed, and he was pretty sure that within the last hour he had started to run a low grade fever. Add to that the fact that his stomach hadn't stopped hurting since Jeffram had poured the poison down his throat, and he felt pretty damn miserable. He hadn't said anything to Sam, though, knowing his brother was worried enough as it was.

'_Pull yourself together, Dean,'_ he told himself firmly, knowing they still had a long drive in front of them. There was no time for weakness, which meant he would just have to suck it up, push his discomfort aside, and move on. Nothing new there.

The handle on the pump clicked, indicating that the tank was full, and Dean replaced the nozzle before recapping the tank. He glanced toward the station, locating Sam quickly as his brother browsed the shelves inside. Sam glanced up and their eyes met through the glass window. Dean motioned toward the side of the station, letting his brother know he was heading toward the bathrooms located there. Sam nodded, then returned to his shopping.

Squinting in the bright morning sun, Dean marched across the station's driveway, rock gravel crunching beneath his feet. He located the men's restroom and yanked the door open, grimacing at the dirty interior. After a lifetime on the road he should have been used to smelly rat-holes like this, but they still managed to gross him out.

He quickly took care of his needs, then made his way over to the sink, turning on the water and cupping his hands beneath the spray. After several cold splashes to his face, he managed to convince himself he was feeling slightly better, and turned toward the door.

The pain hit him mid-step.

There was no warning, nothing at all to indicate it was coming. One minute he was reaching for the lock on the door, the next his whole body was awash in a sea of torment. It felt as though thousands of hot needles were piercing into his body, digging into his flesh and burning into his nerves. The pain was everywhere…his stomach and torso, his arms and legs, even his head. A small cry was torn from his throat, and he clenched his eyes tightly shut, panting harshly as he attempted to ride out the waves of agony.

He had no idea how long it lasted. It could have been five minutes or an hour, but eventually he felt the pain ease, the hot needles slowly fading away, leaving behind a dull, aching tingle in their wake. He was afraid to move, afraid to _breathe_ in case the pain returned. Eventually, he forced his eyes open, surprised to find the dirty tiles of the bathroom only a few inches from his face. He realized he was on his hands and knees, though he had no memory of falling.

He let out a low groan, and the sound seemed to be the release his body had been waiting for, because it immediately began to tremble violently, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants.

Clenching his jaw, he pushed himself into a more upright position, then suddenly lurched forward, barely making it to the toilet before his body began to heave. His stomach felt as though it were attempting to turn itself inside out and then crawl out through his mouth, and Dean could only clutch the edge of the toilet as he retched violently, ridding his body of what little food was left in it.

When it was finally over, he pushed himself away from the toilet, slumping against the wall by the sink, his head falling back to hit the plaster with a light thunk. He wanted to get up, to get out of this stinking cell, but he simply didn't have the strength to rise at the moment. He let his eyes drift closed as he fought to regain control of his body.

A firm knock on the door had him jerking upright, his eyes flying open as Sam's worried voice drifted in from outside.

"Hey, Dean, you in there?"

Dean swallowed hard, wincing at the burn in his throat. "Yeah," he called back, fighting to keep his voice steady, "just give me a minute."

Using the edge of the sink, he hauled himself to his feet, biting back a groan as his sore muscles protested the movement. His stomach gave another painful lurch, and he froze, one hand clutched around his mid-riff as he waited for his insides to settle. As soon as he thought it was safe to move again, he quickly stepped over to the toilet, flushing down the contents without a glance. Then he moved back to the sink, washing his hands and face hurriedly, his eyes carefully avoiding his reflection in the grimy mirror.

Stepping to the entrance he flipped the lock then pulled the door open, unsurprised to find Sam hovering just outside. His brother glanced at him as he stepped out, the concern on his face morphing into full out worry as he took in Dean's appearance.

"Dean, you look awful, man," he observed, stepping forward and half lifting one hand as though he expected to have to catch Dean.

Dean squared his shoulders, not quite meeting his brother's gaze. "Dude, I'm fine," he muttered, brushing past Sam and heading toward the Impala. It was a blatant lie, and Sam undoubtedly knew it, but Dean wasn't quite ready to discuss what had just happened. If he told Sam, his brother would merely turn himself inside out with worry, and that would accomplish absolutely nothing. He needed Sam focused on finding the dagger, not fretting over him.

He was almost back to the car when a sudden thought had him stopping in his tracks.

"Dean, what is it?" his brother asked from directly behind him.

Dean bit his lip, casting Sam a quick glance over his shoulder. He knew there was no way he could get back behind the wheel. The attack in the bathroom had struck without warning, and he knew it had only been blind luck that he hadn't been driving when it hit. If he had, he and Sam would likely be two unrecognizable lumps of road-kill about now.

"Dean?"

Sam had moved up beside him now, his forehead creased in worry as he looked at Dean questioningly.

Without answering, Dean dug in his pocket, pulling out the Impala's key and handing it wordlessly to his brother.

Sam's frown deepened as he slowly took the keys. "You sure you're okay?" he asked softly, his brown eyes pleading with Dean to let him in.

So much for keeping Sam from worrying about him.

Dean sighed. "Yeah, Sammy, just a little tired," he replied, knowing he owed his brother that much. He knew if their situations were reversed, he'd be going crazy right about now. He forced a lightness he didn't feel into his tone as he added, "but don't even think about trying to listen to that crappy emo rock the whole way there or you'll be riding in the trunk instead."

Sam rolled his eyes, which was exactly the reaction Dean had been looking for. He would take exasperated and annoyed Sam over worried Sam any day of the week. He moved past his brother and around the Impala, opening the passenger door and slipping inside with a silent groan.

A moment later Sam slipped into the driver's seat, tossing a plastic bag onto the seat between them and leaning over to open the glove box. Pulling out the bottle of Tylenol they always kept there, he dropped the container into Dean's lap with a quiet, "You should take some of these."

Dean nodded, already opening the bottle and spilling two of the pills into his open palm. He tossed the capsules into the back of his throat, then accepted the opened bottle of water his brother passed him, chasing down the pills with the cold liquid. Holding the bottle loosely between his legs, he let his head fall back wearily against the back of the seat, his eyes sliding shut.

"You want some food?" Sam asked, and Dean heard the crinkling of the plastic bag as his brother rifled through it, pulling out whatever items he had picked out for their meal.

Dean shook his head without opening his eyes, "Maybe in a while," he replied, hoping his brother wouldn't push the issue. He didn't smell anything, which meant Sam had passed over whatever greasy meat by-product this particular station had to offer. For once he was glad, not sure that his stomach would have been able to handle the smell.

There was a pause, and Dean could feel Sam's eyes on him, but his brother didn't say anything, and a moment later the Impala's engine started up with a familiar roar.

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They were deep into Nebraska when Sam's phone rang. Shifting his grip on the steering wheel, he dug it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID.

"Bobby?" Dean asked from his position slumped against the door. He hadn't moved from that spot since leaving the gas station several hours past, and Sam had thought he was asleep.

"Yeah," he grunted, flipping the phone open and hitting the speaker button before placing it in the middle of the seat between them. "Hey, Bobby," he called out, raising his voice so that the older hunter could hear him.

"Sam," came the gruff reply. "You boys doing all right?"

Sam cast a quick glance toward his brother, sitting pale and watchful in the seat next to him, before answering. "We're okay. Did you find anything?"

There was a sharp grunt on the other end of the line. "I found something, alright, and you're not going to like it. Let me just say, you boys really know how to pick 'em."

"What do you have?" Sam asked, his fists tightening around the steering wheel, more than ready to finally get some answers.

"December 2003, Reno, Nevada… a waitress is walking home from a late night shift at a bar when she is attacked and killed. The Connley's were the last to be seen with her and a witness put them leaving the bar shortly after the girl. The police picked them up as possible suspects, but weren't able to hold them, mostly because cause-of-death for the girl wasn't ever really established. The only wound they found on her body was a small cut on her arm…certainly nothing serious enough to kill her. Other than that, she was in perfect health…no explanation as to why she suddenly dropped dead."

Dean grunted. "Unexplainable and strange deaths; it's one of the first things we look for when searching for a hunt. Dad would have been all over this. Let me guess; the cut on her arm was caused by this mysterious dagger we're after?"

"Looks like," Bobby answered. "There was another death shortly after the waitress…a transient who died under the same mysterious circumstances. If I had to guess, I'd say your dad witnessed the Connley's using the dagger, saw what it could do, then took it away and hid it."

Sam frowned. "So what _does_ it do exactly?" he asked.

"Apparently, it kills," Bobby growled in answer, the sarcasm in his voice unmistakable. "Don't tell me you boys haven't ever run across a supernatural weapon before."

"Well, there was the Colt," Dean answered softly, and Sam couldn't help but give his brother a glance from the corner of his eye. Dean's voice had been casual enough, but Sam saw his brother wrap one arm around his middle, almost as though protecting himself from an unseen pain.

"Yeah, well, there's a lot more out there than just the Colt. Most of it pretty nasty stuff."

"Okay," Sam answered. "So if this dagger was so bad, why did Dad hide it? Why didn't he just destroy it?"

Bobby snorted. "Because he wasn't stupid. Weapons of dark magic aren't that easy to destroy, if it's possible to destroy them at all. You try to do it the wrong way, and your begging for disaster. Your dad did the smart thing and just hid it away. Unfortunately, we weren't really on speaking terms at the time, so he never bothered to come to me to find out exactly what it was he was dealing with."

"Well, lucky for us, we _did_," Sam replied. "I take it you found something, Bobby?"

Bobby let out a small huff. "You could say that. I started out trying to research the dagger, but I was getting nowhere, so I switched tactics and decided to see what I could come up with on the Connley's. It wasn't easy, and I had to dig deep…and I mean really deep, but I finally hit the jackpot."

Sam exchanged a look with Dean before they both asked simultaneously, "What did you find?"

"Not what I expected," Bobby replied. "Jeffram Connley was a Captain of the slave ship _Solomon_, a ship that was credited with bringing over 4,000 African slaves to the United States between 1720 and 1732. Both his boys, Eli and Joseph, served as officers on the ship with him."

Sam felt his brows climb, and beside him Dean finally straightened from his slouch against the passenger door, a look of surprise on his face. "Did you say 1720?" he asked, his voice incredulous.

"Yep," Bobby replied crisply. "1720."

Sam shook his head. "So what are we dealing with here, Bobby?" he asked, his mind flipping through a dozen different possibilities before settling on the one he thought most likely. "Witches?"

Bobby grunted. "Guess again," he answered. "From what I've read, Jeffram Connley was cruel and sadistic, but didn't have enough lights on upstairs to figure out something as complicated as witchcraft. But you're on the right track, Sam."

Dean let out a loud sigh, slumping back into his slouched position against the door. "Something tells me you already know what's going on, Bobby, so let's skip the guessing game and you can just tell us, alright?"

"Don't get your underwear in a knot," Bobby growled. "I was getting to it…if you boys would quit interrupting!"

"We're all ears," Sam promised, shooting Dean a disapproving frown which was, of course, completely ignored.

Bobby let out another small huff. "This stuff ain't exactly in the history books. I wasn't lying when I said I had to dig deep. Lucky for us, a lot of the Connley's exploits were recorded in the journal of one Henry Stagstetter, long-time employee of the family and the First Mate on the _Solomon_. You don't want to know what I had to do to get my hands on a copy of that journal."

Bobby paused, as though expecting an interruption, but Sam and Dean both kept obediently silent.

"Anyway, near the end of his journal Henry recounts a particularly interesting tale that took place just off the tip of South Africa in 1732. Jeffram had just taken an entire village captive and was preparing to set sail back to Boston, when the village's chief and shaman came to him and offered to make a deal. In exchange for the villagers, the shaman would give Jeffram a weapon of great power…something that would allow him to defeat all his enemies and grant him immortal life."

"The dagger?" Sam guessed, then quickly snapped his mouth shut as he remembered he wasn't supposed to interrupt.

Bobby sounded more tired than upset as he answered, "You got it. Jeffram agreed, more out of curiosity than anything else it sounds like. Henry didn't record the ritual in detail, which I guess is a good thing, but the little he did describe was some pretty dark magic, including human sacrifice…the chief's own daughter."

Sam exchanged a quick glance with Dean, their expressions matching looks of disgust.

"When all was said and done," Bobby continued, "the shaman presented Connley with the dagger and told him it had the power to steal his enemies' life force with just a single cut. Of course, Connley had to test it out first…which he did…on none other than the chief himself."

"Well, I'm going to hazard a guess here and say that it worked," Dean grunted, letting out a deep sigh and running a hand down his face.

"Oh, it worked all right," Bobby stated. "According to Henry, Connley barely cut into the Chief and the man dropped like a fly. As soon as it happened, Connley seemed to 'swell and glow, emanating with a power not his own.'" Bobby quoted.

"What else did this Henry have to say?" Sam asked.

"Not much," Bobby sighed. "As soon as the _Solomon_ got back to port in Boston, Connley and his sons left the ship and took off, never to be heard from again…at least, according to Henry. I, however, was able to find a couple mentions of them…or at least the effects of the dagger being used…scattered through the records over the last hundred or so years…the most recent, the waitress and transient in Reno three years ago."

Sam was silent for a moment as he mulled over the new information, and then he asked, "So what happens to the Connley's without the dagger?"

He could almost hear Bobby shrug on the other end of the line. "My guess? Without the ability to steal the life force of their victims, they'll start to age and eventually die, just like everyone else."

"Aww, my heart bleeds for them," Dean growled sarcastically. "There's no telling how many people these bastards have killed over the last two hundred and fifty years. Dad should have wasted them when he had the chance."

Sam frowned, pulling his gaze from the road long enough to cast his brother a side-long glance. "They're humans, Dean," he said softly. "Murderers, sure, but still humans…."

Dean merely grunted, not bothering to even look in Sam's direction. "Being human shouldn't grant them a 'get out of jail free' card, Sam. These guys are walking because no law enforcement office is ever going to be able to pin anything on them. How is that justice?"

"It's not," Sam answered softly. "But Dean, we can't just appoint ourselves judge and jury and hand out death sentences at our merest whim."

Dean turned to look at him, his expression hard, the tension in his shoulders obvious. Sam had to bite back a sigh. This was so _not_ the time to have an argument over moral obligations, especially since a small part of Sam found himself agreeing with his brother. After what the Connley's had done to Dean, it was hard for Sam to dredge up any mercy for them.

"Sam's right, Dean," Bobby chimed in from over the phone. "I think we have our hands full enough dealing with the supernatural world. You try to jump into that particular barrel of fish and you might just drown in it."

"Right," Dean grunted, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Regardless, we still need to come up with a plan, because there is no way in hell I'm letting the Connley's have that dagger back."

"Of course not," Sam answered quickly. "Me neither. But we still need to find it, Dean. Use it to get the antidote to the poison. We can figure out what to do about the Connley's afterward."

Dean sighed. "Look, Sam…" he started, but cut off suddenly with a small grunt. Sam glanced in his direction just in time to see his brother reach out and steady himself against the dash with one hand, his other arm curling around his mid-section as his chin dropped to his chest, his eyes squeezing tightly closed. He let out a low sound, almost like the growl of a wounded animal, and Sam felt his heart start to beat faster.

"Dean?" he called out worriedly, his apprehension spiking when he got no reply. Every muscle in Dean's body seemed to be tensed, his jaw clenched so tightly that Sam swore he could hear the sound of grinding teeth over the roar of the Impala. He called his brother's name again, his voice rising slightly in volume with his growing panic, but still Dean did not respond.

Tearing his gaze away, Sam frantically scanned the road in front of him for a safe place to pull over. Distantly, he heard Bobby calling out from across the phone line, but he was too focused on Dean to pay much attention. His brother's breathing had turned ragged, his harsh pants interspersed with the same low growl of pain that set every nerve in Sam's body on edge. He knew the quiet groans were a testimony to the depths of his brother's pain, and that Dean never would have let the small noises escape if he was in any way able to stop them.

"Hold on, Dean," he cried out, pressing on the brakes and aiming the Impala for a wide swath of shoulder on the edge of the road straight ahead. The phone slid from the seat with the force of the sudden deceleration, landing somewhere on the floor at Dean's feet.

As soon as the car rolled to a stop, Sam slammed the transmission into park and was out the door and around the car before the cloud of dust from the Impala's wheels even had a chance to settle. Wrenching the passenger door open, he knelt down and reached in to place a hand on his brother's shoulder. The muscles under his fingers were taught, Dean's only reaction to his touch another low, whimpering moan.

"Dean…" Sam started, then cut off, uncertain what he could say. He wanted to offer comfort and reassurance, but his own panic was too great. He had no idea what was going on or how to stop it, his helplessness and fear leaving him feeling useless and incompetent. There were no wounds to tend to, no bleeding to stop, nothing physically he could do to ease Dean's pain, and so he merely knelt there, his hand gripping his brother's shoulder, his body shaking to match Dean's as he prayed desperately that the attack would pass.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but eventually he felt the muscles beneath his hands gradually start to uncoil. Dean's harsh breathing slowly evened out, and the low growls of pain faded away to silence. Still Sam knelt next to the Impala, his gaze locked on his brother's profile, his fear a living entity coiling and writhing inside his chest.

Finally, the hand Dean had used to brace against the dash dropped, and almost as though the small movement were some sort of signal, Sam found himself drawing in his first deep breath since the whole ordeal had started.

"Dean?" He murmured, his brother's name carrying with it a dozen questions.

Dean's shoulders slumped slightly, and his head remained bowed as he lifted his eyes up to meet Sam's worried gaze. "It's over," he breathed wearily. "I'm good, Sammy."

That last statement was so absurd, so completely inaccurate in its summation of reality, that Sam couldn't hold back an incredulous snort. "You're good? Really, Dean? What the hell, man!? One minute your talking to me like nothing's wrong, and the next you're having some sort of attack. What happened, Dean? What's going on?"

Dean sighed and dropped his gaze, shifting his shoulders gingerly, his movements slow and careful, as though he were afraid the pain from a moment before might return. "I don't know what to tell you, Sammy," he muttered, lifting his head to stare out the window in front of him. "It must be the poison. I was feeling fine one minute, and the next I…wasn't." He frowned slightly, then let his gaze flicker back to Sam. "But whatever it was, it's over now, so you can relax."

"Oh, well that's good," Sam replied sarcastically, unable to keep the bite out of his words. "My brother just had some sort of severe pain attack, but he's _'good'_ now, so I think I'll just not worry my little head about it…"

Dean closed his eyes and let his head fall against the back of the seat. "Sam," he grunted, the warning in his tone obvious.

Sam might have been more inclined to pay attention to it if his brother didn't look quite so sick and pale, his features ashen, his freckles standing out in vivid display across his white face. He looked just like he had several hours prior back at the gas station, and Sam felt sudden realization strike him. His eyes narrowed and the grip he still had on his brother's shoulder tightened. "Dean, is this the first time this has happened?" he asked tightly, watching his brother's face closely.

Dean opened his eyes to glance at him, and Sam prepared himself for the lie he knew was coming. His brother opened his mouth, then suddenly hesitated, his gaze skipping away from Sam's, his bottom lip pulled in tight against his teeth. A moment or two passed, and then Dean gave a minute shake of his head.

Sam let out a long breathe he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "The gas station?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Again Dean merely gave the tiniest nod, his gaze still resolutely turned away from Sam, like a child who had done wrong and didn't want to face the wrath of his parent. It was so uncharacteristic of Dean that Sam felt his anger drain away. "Dean, why didn't you tell me?" he asked unhappily.

Dean shrugged, finally lifting his gaze to meet Sam's. "Nothing you could have done," he replied simply. "I didn't want you to worry."

Sam clenched his jaw, running a weary hand down over his face. "So it never occurred to you to give me a heads up in case it happened again?" he asked. "You know, so I wouldn't have a freaking heart attack thinking my brother was _dying_ in the seat beside me? You're lucky I didn't wreck the Impala, Dean." That last was a low blow, but Sam didn't really care. If it helped drive his point home, he wasn't above playing dirty.

It was Dean's turn to let out a sigh, but his expression was remorseful. "Sorry, Sammy. I guess I was kinda hoping it was a one-time thing. This totally sucks, you know."

Sam bit his lip as he gave a tight nod. "_Totally sucks_" didn't even begin to describe it.

"You know, it's only going to get worse," Dean went on, his voice soft and weighed down with weariness. "I can feel it inside me, Sam. The poison. Most of the time I only feel sick, but then the pain hits and I…"

He trailed off and Sam squeezed his shoulder firmly, fighting down the lump growing in his throat. "Don't worry, Dean. Everything will be fine. We'll find the dagger, get the antidote, and you'll be back to your pain-in-the-ass self in no time," he encouraged.

Dean looked up and gave him a ghost of a smile. "Pain in the ass, huh?" he grunted. "How quickly you forget, Sammy. _I'm_ the awesome brother…_you're_ the pain in the ass."

Sam let out a small huff of laughter before quickly sobering and leveling his brother with a serious stare. "How are you feeling now?" he asked softly, then, on instinct reached out and rested the back of his hand against his brother's forehead.

"Dude," Dean huffed, jerking back from the touch, but not before Sam felt the warmth of his brow. Dean was running a fever. It wasn't severe, but it still had him worried.

"I feel like crap, Sam, all right," Dean grumbled, obviously realizing from Sam's expression that there would be no downplaying his condition this time. "But there isn't a damn thing you can do about it, so quit fussing and start driving. We're burning daylight, here."

Sam frowned, but he knew his brother was right. It was frustrating that the only thing he seemed able to do to help his brother was hand out pills…pills he didn't even know were having an effect.

"Let me know if you start feeling worse," he directed, pushing himself to his feet and staring down at his brother worriedly.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, Esmerelda. Can we just get going, man? That dagger isn't going to find itself."

Sam fought back the urge to press the issue, knowing full well that it wouldn't do any good. Dean was right, things were only likely to get worse from here, and that certain knowledge filled him with an even greater sense of urgency. With a resigned sigh, he started to turn away when his eye caught the glint of his phone sitting at Dean's feet.

"Ah, crap," he yelped, stooping down to grab the phone and bringing it to his ear. "Bobby?" he called, not really expecting the older hunter to still be there. He quickly had to jerk the phone away from his ear, however, as a string of curses came through to him from the other side of the line. The fall from the seat had disabled the speaker phone, but Bobby was making up for it in volume and ferocity.

Quickly punching the volume down a few notches, Sam brought the phone back up to his ear. "Sorry, Bobby," he interjected into the shouted string of questions and demands. "I can explain…"

TBC

_Hope you enjoyed. Please let me know what you think. I love reviews!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

They arrived in Blue Earth, Minnesota shortly before midnight.

Dean sat tense and alert in the passenger seat of the Impala, his gaze fixed forward as the familiar scenery of the town slipped silently past in the inky darkness. Any relief he might have felt at finally reaching their destination was buried beneath exhaustion and pain.

He felt awful, his body slowly betraying him to weakness with every passing hour. He had tried to get some rest while Sam drove, knowing he would need all the strength he could muster, but it had been an effort in futility. As crappy as he felt, he was too tense, too wired, his body on constant alert for the next pain attack.

Twice more it had struck during the long drive, each time without warning. Pain so intense that it ripped him away from all form of conscious thought, leaving him hunched over in the front seat of the Impala, groaning in agony. Each time, as the pain would slowly start to fade away, he would look up to find the Impala parked on the side of the road and Sam kneeling at his side, his expression one of helpless anguish.

He had no sense of time while in the throes of the pain attacks, but instinct told him that each new one lasted slightly longer than the last, and when they were finally over he was left feeling drained and weaker than ever.

Seeing his misery, Sam would silently reach for the pain medicine, and Dean would take the proffered pills silently, not having the heart to tell his brother that they weren't doing the least bit of good. His fever was getting worse as well, and Dean knew that if things continued at the present rate, he would be of little to no use to his brother.

_At least he'll have Bobby to back him up,_ Dean thought tiredly. The older hunter would be meeting up with them sometime in the morning. By that point in time, he and Sam should hopefully have already found the dagger.

_If it's here, _a small voice in the back of his mind taunted him, and Dean brutally pushed it away. Now was not the time for doubt and second-guessing.

"We're here," Sam stated softly, pulling Dean back to the present.

He bit his lip as the familiar stone building of the church came into view, its bank of stain-glass windows overlooking the parking lot and reflecting the Impala's lights as Sam pulled in and parked the car toward the back of the lot. He couldn't see Pastor Jim's house from here, located behind the church and down a short dirt road, but his mind's eye could still clearly picture it. The faded white clapboard siding, the front porch with its hanging swing, the cheerful glow of the kitchen lights as they spilled out into the yard, and Pastor Jim standing in the front door, a small smile on his face as he waited to welcome them.

Dean had to swallow hard against the sudden tightness in his chest. He had been eight when his father had first brought him here, and already distrustful of anybody that was not family. Especially when that person was a stranger that his father dumped him with after only a quick introduction and a hurried goodbye. Surprisingly, it hadn't taken long for Pastor Jim to win him over. There was something calming about the man, a gentleness of spirit that had filled Dean with a sense of peace that was otherwise lacking in his life. Pastor Jim cared for them without being overbearing, supporting them while still allowing them their freedom. He had understood Dean in a way few others ever had, and his kind acceptance of the boy struggling to become a man way too early had comforted Dean more than he had ever been able to admit. Jim's place had quickly become their safe harbor, a quiet port in the constant storm that was their lives. It was the place John would take them when it all became too much…the stress, the injuries, the grief. If there was anywhere on earth that Dean would have willingly called home, it would have been here.

"_But all that is gone now_," Dean thought sadly. Jim hadn't deserved what had happened to him.

To make matters worse, Dean had never really been given the opportunity to properly grieve for his old friend. When they had found out about Jim's death, the yellow eyed demon had been poised to strike again, and Dean had brutally forced away all emotion in order to focus on the upcoming battle. Then his father had been taken and possessed, setting off a chain reaction of events that had ultimately culminated in John's death. After that…well, Dean hadn't been able to think of much of anything besides the agonizing loss of his father and his own role in it all.

But now they were back at this place, and it was unsurprising that it was bringing forth a well of memories. Building a fort in Jim's back yard when he was eight; Teaching Sam to play poker on the small round table in the kitchen, a mound of M & M's in the middle serving as the chips; Sitting on Jim's front porch cleaning weapons while the old preacher read aloud from one of his many books. All these memories and more spilled through Dean's mind, bringing with it a heavy sense of nostalgia and loss.

He glanced over at Sam and knew his brother was caught up in similar thoughts, his gaze fixed on the old church through the front windshield, his expression sadly wistful. In the light reflected back from the stain-glass windows, Sam's eyes were shining suspcisuously bright.

"Let's go," Dean ordered, his voice coming out slightly gruffer than he had intended. Turning away from his brother he reached for the handle of the door, swinging it open and levering himself up and out of the car.

Immediately a wave of dizziness hit him, forcing him to reach out and grab the frame of the door in order to help steady himself in a world that was suddenly spinning. His stomach twisted nauseatingly, and he was glad it was empty except for the few crackers Sam had insisted he eat earlier. He could hear his heartbeat in the throb of his head, and he quickly closed his eyes and fought against the urge to pass out.

"Dean?" Sam's concerned voice sounded from right next to him, and he felt his brother's hand come to rest on his upper arm, helping to steady him. How Sam had managed to get out of the car and around to him so fast was beyond Dean.

It took a few moments before he felt safe to open his eyes again without the risk of falling over…or worse, puking on his brother. As soon as he was reasonably sure the world wasn't going to tip sideways on him again, he shrugged his shoulders slightly, cueing Sam that he could stand without his brother's aid. Sam let go of his arm, but his face was still tense with worry.

"I'm alright," Dean stated sincerely. "Just been sitting in the car for too long…got up too fast."

Sam nodded, but none of the worry left his face. "You haven't eaten much today, Dean. You need to get some more food in you."

Dean shrugged. "Later," was all he said. He didn't think he needed to mention to Sam that the fact he hadn't eaten much was the only reason his brother still had clean shoes at the moment.

Sam frowned, his mouth opening to undoubtedly press the issue, but Dean didn't give him a chance, brushing by his brother and heading toward the trunk. "You want to search the church or the house first?" he called back over his shoulder.

Sam's sigh was loud and obviously meant to convey his displeasure, but he let it go. "The church," he answered simply, stepping up beside Dean and using the key to open the trunk.

Dean nodded in approval. That had been his first choice as well. There were hidden rooms beneath the church that Jim and their father had used to store weapons, books, and other supernatural paraphernalia. Unlike Bobby, Jim had kept very little evidence of his secret life as a hunter inside his home, and for obvious reasons. As a well-known and respected member of the community, he'd had an almost constant stream of visitors coming by seeking either advice or some other service, and he had willingly opened his door to all of them.

"_Even a couple of homeless strays dumped on his doorstep three days before Christmas_," Dean thought sadly, the memories threatening to overwhelm him once again.

He found himself hoping they found the dagger inside the church, because he wasn't looking forward to visiting the house. The church held enough memories as it was, but if they had to go into the house, he wasn't sure he would be able to stand it. He was too tired, the mental barriers he kept tight over his emotions worn thin by exhaustion and pain.

Opening the secret compartment where they kept their weapons, Dean quickly ran his hands along the side of the enclosure until he found the small tear in the fabric that marked the location of the hidden key. Poking his fingers down into the tiny space, he breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the cool metal against his fingers. Grasping it, he pulled it free, glancing at it quickly before handing it over to his brother. Sam took it silently, frowning slightly as he examined it closely under the dim glow of the trunk's light.

"This doesn't look that old," Sam murmured, turning the key from side to side, "but it's definitely designed in an older style. It wouldn't fit your typical lock. There's some kind of motif etched on the end, but I can't quite make it out. It looks like a man…and some kind of animal…" Sam trailed off, leaning in closer and squinting at the key intently.

"We can figure it out inside," Dean urged, grabbing for a couple of flashlights before slamming the trunk closed. He glanced around, but the night was silent, the street empty of cars and the nearby houses dark and still.

Sam nodded, slipping the key into his pocket as they made their way quickly toward the church. Less than five minutes later they were inside the building, slipping past silent pews as they crept toward the front of the sanctuary. A large wooden door was located just past the pulpit next to the choir loft, and Dean confidently led the way through the entrance, flipping his flashlight on to illuminate the narrow stairs leading down into the basement.

A moment later they stepped into a large chamber, and Dean ran his flashlight in a quick sweep around the room. The room was roughly circular, with three giant stone statues nestled in alcoves spaced evenly in an arc around the perimeter. Wooden doors interspersed between the statues held plaques identifying various offices, including one that still bore the title "Pastor Jim Murphy."

Dean ignored those doors and headed straight for the statue directly across from the stairs, a stone effigy depicting the Virgin Mary with a naked babe cradled in one arm, a look of adoration gracing her stone features as she gazed down at the child. Reaching back into the alcove behind the statue, Dean ran practiced fingers over the stones there until he found what he was looking for. Releasing the hidden lever, he stepped back beside Sam and watched as the stone statue silently rolled forward and to one side, revealing a third wooden door hidden in the back of the alcove.

Exchanging a quick glance with his brother, Dean stepped forward and pushed open the door, revealing yet another set of stairs leading further down into inky darkness. The hidden rooms beneath the church had been put there by Jim's father, the original designer and architect of the old church. Jim had told them the rooms had been designed for use as some sort of emergency bunker, and their existence had never been recorded on the building's blueprints.

Dean moved onto the stairs, wrinkling his nose slightly at the smell of stale air and something metallic drifting up from below. He used his flashlight to illuminate the stairs in front of him, noting the layer of dust that covered each step and the cobwebs that clung to the walls. No one had been down here for quite some time, a fact that both reassured and somehow disturbed him at the same time.

The stairs descended for about fifteen feet before spilling out into a second, smaller chamber. Dean used his flashlight to locate the switch on the wall, then flipped the lights on, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Turning off his flashlight, he tucked it into his jacket pocket before stepping further into the room, Sam a step behind him.

The walls of this room were lined with various shelves and racks, each of them loaded with an assortment of knives, guns, and other armaments. Dean ran an appreciative gaze across the array of weapons, then suddenly froze as his eyes skimmed across a large dark stain marring the stones of the wall and floor on the far side of the room. Suddenly the source of the metallic smell clicked home for Dean and he had to swallow hard as the nausea from before returned with a vengeance.

A small gasp next to him told Dean that Sam had spotted the stain as well. He tore his gaze away from the dried pool of blood to look over at his brother. Sam's face was drained of color, and Dean could see his throat working convulsively as he stared toward the gruesome scene. This time it was Dean who reached out to place a supporting hand on his brother's shoulder, squeezing gently.

"This is where Caleb found him?" Sam whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

Dean sighed. "Looks like," he replied solemnly.

As if the evidence of Jim's violent death wasn't bad enough, Dean found his thoughts turning toward Caleb. He hadn't been as close to the man as John had been, but he had still worked several cases with the hunter and had liked and respected him. The knowledge that Caleb had died because of them was a bitter pill to swallow.

Taking a deep breath, Dean walled away all emotion and set his mind to the task at hand. "Come on, Sammy, let's start looking," He urged softly, turning his brother away from the scene with a gentle pressure on his shoulder. "We'll search out here first and then try the office."

Sam swallowed hard, and when he looked at Dean, his eyes were haunted. But a moment later his features hardened with determination, and he squared his shoulders, his attention turning to the shelves of weapons.

_That a boy, Sammy_

Dean purposefully took the side of the room with the blood stains, leaving Sam to search the other side. He didn't really expect to find the dagger here, out in the open with the other hunting supplies, but since they were here they might as well make a thorough search of it.

It took a little over half an hour to thoroughly search through the weapons, and when that turned up nothing, they both stepped as one toward the only other door in the small chamber.

This door led into a second, smaller room, set up as an office. A sturdy wooden desk sat near the center of the room, and the shelves lining the walls contained mostly books. Two large chests were tucked against the back wall, and a hutch with a glass front contained an assortment of items, including several small boxes, some ornate silver cups, a skull of some unidentified creature, black candles, and other random objects. The floor of the room was made up of hundreds of stone blocks, the names of saints and other holy symbols etched into many of them.

_It's gotta be here_, Dean thought to himself, his gaze sweeping around the cluttered room. He knew his father had spent countless hours holed up in this office researching hunts and writing in his journal. If John had been a child, Dean would have labeled this place his 'secret hideout.' If there was anywhere John would have felt safe hiding a dangerous relic, this would be it.

"You take the desk and hutch, and I'll check the trunks?" Sam suggested.

Dean nodded, already moving over toward the desk.

The next hour was spent in relative silence, the only sound in the small room their breathing and the rustle of objects being shifted and moved. Dean finished with the desk and moved over to the larger hutch, stumbling slightly as his vision momentarily blurred. He caught himself quickly, glancing over to see if Sam had noticed, but his brother was completely preoccupied with the contents of the trunks.

Dean wearily turned back to his task. They were coming up on nearly forty hours without sleep…unless you counted the time spent unconscious in the warehouse…and Dean was nearing the end of his rope. Any other time and forty hours would have been nothing…a minor inconvenience. But with the effects of the poison making him feel lousy, and the constant tension from waiting for another pain attack, he was having a bit more trouble.

He was also beginning to worry that he might have made a mistake bringing them here. He had felt so certain that this is where his father would have hidden the dagger, but he was nearly finished searching the hutch, Sam was down to the bottom of the second trunk, and they were quickly running out of places to look. There was still the house, but Dean had the strong suspicion that if they didn't find the dagger here, they wouldn't find it in the house either. And if they didn't find the dagger…

"I might have something," Sam suddenly called, pulling Dean from his dark thoughts. He turned to find his brother lifting a small wooden box from the bottom of the second trunk. "It takes a key," Sam stated, casting a quick glance at Dean, the hope in his face unmistakable.

Dean moved over to stand beside Sam where he knelt next to the trunks, rooting in his pocket for the key. Pulling it out, he pressed it into the small lock on the box. The key slid in, but only part way and Dean could tell immediately that it was too big for the box.

Sam swore harshly, slamming the box down on the stone floor, frustration and anger spilling off him in nearly visible waves. Dean arched one eyebrow, surprised at the display of temper. Sam was normally the cool headed one, but apparently exhaustion and worry were beginning to take their toll on him as well.

"It's a pretty simple lock, Sammy. Why don't you just pick it," Dean suggested softly.

Sam glared up at him. "What's the point," he said bitterly. "If the key doesn't fit, the dagger's not going to be in there."

Dean shrugged. "Let's search it anyway. 'No stone unturned' and all that…"

Sam sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly, but he pulled his lock pick set out of his pocket and began working on the box. Less than fifteen seconds later the lock snapped open, and Sam leaned over, lifting the lid. Dean couldn't see the contents past his brother, but he did see Sam suddenly stiffen, heard his small gasp of surprise.

"What is it?" he asked, kneeling swiftly and then closing his eyes to fight off another wave of dizziness. He made a quick mental note to stop making sudden moves. When he opened his eyes again, he found Sam staring at a small photograph held in one hand. Dean glanced at the photo and felt a flash of suprise. It was a picture of Sam and Jess.

The photo had been taken on a sunny day. Sam and his girlfriend were at the park, sitting on a blanket with the remains of a picnic spread out around them. Jessica was laughing, her head thrown back slightly, Sam leaning in close to her, the smile on his face bright and happy. It was a really good picture, made better somehow by the fact that neither of the subjects realized they were being photographed.

Dean glanced at Sam's face. His brother looked thunderstruck, his eyes glued to the photo as though he were unable to look away. Dean reached around and grabbed the box, pulling it forward so he could look at the rest of the contents.

The box held more photos, mostly of Sam and Dean when they were children. There were also several of Sam's report cards, as well as his high school diploma. Beneath the diploma was Sam's acceptance letter to Stanford, wrinkled and slightly torn. There were also things of Dean's in there. A paper target full of holes, a model airplane that had once been a favorite toy, and his old Swiss Army Knife.

"It's a memory box," Sam whispered, and Dean shot him a quick look. Sam had lowered the photo and was staring at the box, a look of awestruck wonderment on his face.

Dean had to admit he was feeling a little stunned himself. He had always thought his father didn't have a sentimental bone in his body, and yet this small box, loaded with memories, was telling a different story. He lifted the model airplane, fingering the cool metal of its wings before gently lowering it back down into the box.

"You want to keep that?" he asked, nodding toward the picture still clutched in Sam's hand.

Sam looked down at the photo, his expression unreadable. Slowly he reached out and placed the picture back in the box. "No," he stated softly. "I'll leave it where it belongs."

Dean nodded, closing the lid on the box and relocking it before replacing it in the trunk.

"Dean, the dagger's not here," Sam said, his tired eyes locking with Dean's, his tone taking on a defeated edge. "What happens if we can't find it?"

"We just have to keep looking, Sam," Dean replied, his own weariness evident in his voice. He started pushing himself upright. "We'll check the house, and then…"

Just as before, the pain hit without warning. One moment he was trying to encourage his brother not to give up, and the next he felt as if something was ripping into his body, intent on bringing his insides to the outside. The pain was unbearable, coursing through his body like a live current, momentarily blinding him and causing every muscle to clench. He felt himself falling forward, felt arms reach out to grab him, heard Sam calling his name, and then there was nothing but overwhelming agony, slowly sucking him down into a darkness he could not escape.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

This attack was worse than the others. Much worse.

Sam fought against his panic as he gripped Dean's convulsing body against his chest, muttering inane words of comfort that he was sure his brother couldn't even hear.

"It's okay, Dean," he babbled. "It's going to be okay. Just hold on, alright. Hold on. It will be over soon, I promise. Just hold on, Dean."

Dean cried out, his body arching against Sam's arms. Sam tightened his grip on his brother as Dean began thrashing, his booted feet scraping against the cold stone floor, his head rocking wildly against Sam's shoulder.

"It's okay," Sam repeated, voice catching as he felt the warmth of tears tracking down his cheeks. "It's okay."

Dean continued to struggle in his arms, every cry sending daggers through Sam's heart. He could feel his brother's racing heartbeat beneath his hand, the ragged gasp of every sawing breath, the clench of muscles so taut they were in danger of snapping.

He closed his eyes and prayed it would end soon.

After what seemed like ages, Dean's struggling eventually lessoned, his cries dying down to panting groans. He was still trembling violently, his eyes clenched tightly closed, but Sam knew the worst of the attack was over. He let out a shaky sigh of relief, but didn't loosen his grip on his brother. He could feel the warmth radiating from Dean's body and knew his fever had spiked up a few notches.

_How much more of this can he take_, he thought bleakly, pulling Dean's shuddering body even closer against him. This one had been bad…very bad, and it had lasted longer than the others. Sam remembered his brother's prediction that things were only going to get worse, and he had to choke down the wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm him.

The minutes ticked by, unnoticed and unheeded as Sam sat against the wall, his brother's back pulled against his chest, Dean's head resting on his shoulder. Eventually Dean shifted against him, pressing weakly against Sam's arms, and Sam immediately let him go. Dean clumsily pushed himself away, flopping back against the wall next to Sam.

"You okay?" Sam asked softly, watching as Dean let his head fall back against the stone wall behind him, eyes closed, face bathed in sweat and far too pale.

Dean swallowed, then gave a brief nod, his eyes still closed. Sam bit his lip and looked away, knowing Dean needed space right now to pull himself back together.

His gaze fell on a stone block at his feet that had been kicked loose from its place on the floor. He pushed himself away from the wall and slid over to the block, frowning down at the name scrawled across the stone in fancy lettering.

"Saint Hubertus_," _he muttered softly, trying to place the name, something niggling at the back of his mind.

"What was that?" Dean asked, and Sam glanced up to see his brother watching him from against the wall, eyes hooded with exhaustion and lingering pain.

"It's the name on the stone," Sam replied, glancing back down at the block. "Saint Hubertus. I don't know why, but it sounds familiar."

Dean let out a tired snort. "Well it should, geek boy. Saint Hubertus is the patron saint of hunters."

Sam's eyes widened as sudden recognition struck. An image suddenly filled his mind…a picture Pastor Jim had once shown him of Saint Hubertus, the saint standing in an open field holding a spear in one hand and a cross in the other, the shadowy form of a giant buck standing directly behind him.

In his mind, he could hear his father's sarcastic voice, "_Patron Saint of Hunters, eh? Something tells me he probably doesn't cover _our_ kind of hunting_."

Then Pastor Jim's patient reply, "_Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that_."

"That's it," Sam gasped, realization slamming home. He thrust his hand down into his coat pocket and pulled out the old key, leaning close to examine the image etched into its head. It was hard to make out, much of the image worn away by time, but he could still see the buck's antlers and the halo that surrounded Saint Hubertus' head.

He tore his gaze away from the key to stare down at the stone. _It can't be…. _ Barely daring to hope, he reached out and gently pried the loose block the rest of the way free, lifting it and setting it carefully to one side. Leaning forward, he peered down into the hole left behind, gasping slightly at what he found. His eyes flew back up to meet Dean's curious gaze.

"It's a safe," he whispered.

Dean's eyes widened, and then he pushed himself forward, groaning slightly as he slid into place next to Sam. He peered down into the hole, then looked back up at Sam, the excitement on his face taking away some of the sick look. "Can you get it out?"

Sam nodded, already reaching down into the hole. There wasn't a lot of clearance, and the knuckles of his fingers scraped painfully against the rough stone, but he ignored the sharp sting and worked his fingers around the metal sides of the safe. Once he had a firm grip, he lifted the box carefully out, taking off a couple more chunks of skin from his fingers as he cleared the hole.

_Please, please let this be it,_ Sam thought desperately as he reached for the key and pressed it into the lock on the top of the safe. It slid in smoothly, and when Sam twisted, the lock sprang open with an audible click. Sam met Dean's eyes over the top of the safe, excitement and apprehension warring equally within his stomach.

He reached down and pulled open the lid.

The dagger lay nestled safely inside on a strip of red cloth, the ruby on the hilt twinkling up at them in greeting.

Sam released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, the sound echoed from Dean beside him. Their gaze locked once more, and Sam knew the relief on Dean's face was mirrored on his own.

He looked back down at the dagger, reaching into the safe to grasp its jeweled hilt. As soon as his fingers touched the weapon, he gasped and drew his hand back quickly, eyes wide with surprise.

"What is it?" Dean asked, frowning at Sam in concern.

"It's cold," Sam replied, startled.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, it _has_ been buried in a metal safe in the ground..."

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean. It's _really_ cold. Like it's been sitting in ice or something."

Dean frowned at him, then reached into the box to feel the hilt for himself. His eyes widened slightly, and he let out a soft, "huh," before retracting his hand from the safe.

Sam reached back in and quickly wrapped the dagger in the red strip of cloth, then carefully withdrew it from the safe. He could still feel the unnatural cold of the thing even through a couple layers of cloth. He shuddered.

"Just be careful not to cut yourself," Dean warned, and it was Sam's turn to roll his eyes.

He placed the dagger on the floor next to him, then reached into his pocket for his phone, pulling it out along with the slip of paper with the Connley's number on it.

Dean arched an eyebrow at him. "Not wasting any time, are we?"

Sam shook his head. "It's time to end this," he stated forcefully, punching the number into his phone and hitting the dial button. He didn't particularly care if it was the early hours of the morning. The Connley's comfort wasn't exactly something he was concerned about at the moment.

The phone rang five times before the other line was picked up. Sam didn't bother with any greeting. "We have your damn dagger. Where do you want to meet?"

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

The sun was just beginning to lighten the eastern sky when Bobby pulled into the parking lot of the Flying Goose motel, located twenty minutes south of Blue Earth. He spotted the Impala almost immediately, and pulled up beside it, grateful the parking lot was mostly empty. He swung out of his truck, heading straight for room six. He was just raising his fist to knock when the door swung open and Sam greeted him with a small smile.

"Hey Bobby," he whispered, then raised a quick finger to his lips.

Bobby stepped into the room, glancing past Sam to the bed where Dean lay sprawled out on his back, fully clothed but for his boots, his head buried under a mound of pillows.

Bobby felt a fond smile touch his lips, but it quickly faded when he turned back toward Sam. The younger man looked completely beat, dark bruises under his eyes and a slump to his shoulders that gave away his utter exhaustion. Bobby arched an eyebrow.

"You look like hell, boy," he growled, the force of his words undermined slightly by the fact that he had to whisper. "Did you get _any_ sleep?"

Sam shrugged. "A couple of hours," he replied dismissively. "I've been trying to come up with a plan for when we meet up with the Connley's."

Bobby nodded, following Sam over to the small table in the far corner of the room where Sam had set up his laptop. "So how's Sleeping Beauty doing?" he asked, gesturing with his chin toward Dean's bed.

Sam's shoulders seemed to slump even more, and when he followed Bobby's gaze, his expression turned miserable. "It's been several hours since the last attack," he murmured, his hands clenching by his side. "If it follows pattern, the next one can't be too far away. They seem to be getting worse, Bobby, and he's been running a steady fever since yesterday morning. I've been giving him Tylenol, but I honestly don't think it's helping."

"Well, at least he's getting some sleep," Bobby offered. "That should help a bit."

Sam nodded, running a hand down his face as though trying to sweep the weariness away. "The Connley's want to meet in Omaha around six tonight. I tried to get them to move the meeting up, but they claimed that was the earliest they could get there. It's only about a four hour drive from here, but they won't give us the address of the meeting place until right before the meeting."

"They don't want us getting there first and scouting out the place," Bobby reasoned.

Sam grunted his agreement. "It's given us a chance to stop and rest, but in the meantime, Dean will keep getting worse…keep suffering." Sam's voice was strained, the look he cast toward the bed one of weary helplessness.

Bobby reached out and gripped the younger man's shoulder, drawing Sam's attention back to him. "Why don't you tell me about this plan?" he suggested.

Sam let out a long sigh. "It's not much. Kinda hard to plan anything without knowing where the meeting is going down. All I know is that getting the antidote is our first priority, but we can't let them escape with that dagger either."

"That's where I come in," Bobby stated firmly. "They'll be expecting you two. I can be your ace in the hole."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, that was what I was thinking. Dean and I can go in and make the trade, and you can wait outside to cut off their escape, keep them from bailing until we can back you up."

"It's a pretty basic plan," Bobby replied thoughtfully, then shrugged. "But I guess if there is one thing us hunters excel at, it's improvising."

"Keep it simple…wing it when you have to," Sam quoted with a small smile, using one of John's oft repeated sayings. His smile faded a moment later as his gaze flickered toward the bed. "There's something else we need to consider, Bobby. Dean might not be in any shape to help us with this fight. He's been pulling it together pretty good between the attacks, but he's wearing down fast. Who knows what shape he's going to be in by tonight."

Bobby had already considered this possibility. "All the more reason for us to make sure we're as rested up and sharp as possible," he stated, pinning the younger hunter with his sternest gaze. "We have several hours before we need to head out. Why don't you follow your brother's lead and catch a little more shut-eye. You look half dead on your feet, Sam."

Sam looked to be considering this when a sudden cry from across the room had both men jumping in startled surprise. Bobby whipped around toward the bed holding Dean, his eyes widening when he saw the young man thrashing around, his face contorted in pain, his hands wildly ripping at his chest and abdomen as though he was trying to pull something off of him.

The suddenness of the attack left Bobby momentarily stunned, until he was nearly bowled over by Sam as he charged past him, flinging himself down on the bed beside his brother and reaching for Dean's flailing arms. Bobby winced as another cry rang through the room, the sound filled with such agony that the older hunter felt his stomach clench.

"Bobby, help me," Sam cried out, still trying to grab hold of Dean's arms before he could do damage to himself.

Bobby hurried around to the other side of the bed, leaning over and capturing Dean's right arm and dragging it away from his chest, pressing it down into the mattress at the young man's side. Dean fought his hold with surprising strength, his cries rising in pitch. His eyes were open, but Bobby knew the lad wasn't seeing them, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, pupils blown wide.

"Easy, Dean. Easy." Sam chanted, and Bobby could tell the young man was trying to keep his voice calm and soothing, but the edge of panic was still there.

With his arms pinned at his sides, Dean began to thrash more wildly, bucking and struggling so violently that it took both hunters to hold him down on the bed. Dean's cries took on a strangled quality as the muscles in his neck bulged, his head pressing back into the pillows even as the rest of his body arched up off the bed.

Bobby was shocked at what he was witnessing. He had seen Dean hurt on more occasions than he cared to remember, but never had he witnessed anything like this. The raw anguish pouring from the young hunter was distressing to say the least. He had seen Dean handle any variety of injuries from broken bones to bloody gashes with a quiet stoicism, silently hiding his pain behind a wall of pure iron will. None of that was in evidence now, and Bobby was only too aware of the level of agony Dean had to be in.

"It will be over soon, Dean," Sam called out desperately. "Soon, I promise."

Bobby found himself praying the younger man was right. There was only a certain amount of pain a person could take before their body shut down, and Bobby knew that by all rights Dean should have been unconscious by now. The only explanation he could think of was that somehow the poison was keeping him from blacking out, and Bobby silently vowed that the sick sons of bitches who had done this to his boy would pay dearly for it.

After nearly ten minutes, Dean's cries turned into chocked sobs, and Bobby wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or not. His muscles were aching from holding Dean down, and he knew the younger man would have bruises on his arms and wrists when all was said and done.

"It's okay...it's okay," Sam chanted softly, the same mantra he had been repeating non-stop for the last ten minutes.

With a final shudder, Dean's body suddenly relaxed beneath their hold, the muscles that had been so tense a moment before becoming completely lax. The change was so abrupt that for a moment Bobby thought Dean must have finally passed out. He glanced toward the young man's face, surprised to find Dean's eyes were still open.

"Dean?" Sam called worriedly, releasing his brother's arm and leaning over him, one hand rising to cup the side of his brother's face in a tender gesture Dean would never have allowed if he'd been fully aware.

Bobby watched as Dean's gaze slowly tracked to his brother's face, his eyes still glassy with pain but showing an awareness that hadn't been there a moment before.

"Sammy?" Dean croaked, his voice coming out rough and ragged. "Please…please make it stop."

Bobby watched as Sam's face crumpled in the face of Dean's softly whispered plea. "I will, Dean. I promise. We're going to get you the antidote and then all this will be over. You just have to hold on. Just a little longer, Dean."

Dean stared at Sam's face intently for a moment and then gave a slight nod. "Don't feel so good…" he murmured, his eyes clenching closed for the first time since the whole ordeal had started. "Think I'm gonna be sick."

Sam reached behind him and grabbed for the trashcan as Bobby helped roll Dean to his side. Sam had barely gotten the can in place before Dean lifted his head and began to retch weakly. Bobby slipped onto the bed, lifting Dean's shoulders up and supporting the younger man as Dean continued to gag, bringing up the meager contents of his stomach. Sam held the trashcan with one hand, his other gripping Dean lightly on his shoulder.

When it was finally over, Bobby gently lowered Dean back to the bed while Sam removed the trashcan, heading into the bathroom. Dean peered up at Bobby groggily, apparently becoming aware of his presence for the first time.

"Bobby," he grunted softly, nodding his head in greeting before dropping his eyes self-consciously. "Glad you could make it. I take it you arrived in time for the show?"

Bobby let out a small huff. "Yep. Front row seat," he replied casually, reaching out and squeezing Dean's shoulder lightly. Then, to help ease some of the tension he added, "Why is it that every time I see you, you're in some sort of trouble?"

Dean looked up, giving him a ghost of a grin. "You know me…trouble's my middle name," he replied cheekily. Then he rolled his eyes toward the bathroom where Sam had disappeared and his gaze turned instantly serious. "You have to watch his back, Bobby." He whispered, voice low but intense.

Bobby grunted. "Kinda what I'm here for," he answered.

Watching out for Sam and Dean had taken high priority for him ever since John had been killed, and Bobby would have it no other way. Not that they needed him all that much. They were both so independent…or at least, dependent only on each other. When they did call for help, it usually signified something big.

_Like Dean dying._

Sam suddenly re-appeared back beside the bed, a glass of water in one hand and a wet washcloth in the other. Dean began to struggle to sit up, and Bobby reached out to help him, piling pillows behind his back to help support him. Once Dean was upright, Sam wordlessly draped the wet washcloth across the back of his brother's neck. Dean shuddered slightly as the cool cloth came in contact with his hot skin, but he didn't complain. That is, until Sam tried to raise the glass to his lips.

"Dude, I can hold it myself," Dean grumbled, reaching out and grabbing the glass from Sam's hand.

Sam sighed, but didn't say anything, not even when Dean spilled some of the water across the bed-spread because his hands were shaking so badly. Dean took a long swallow from the glass, then lowered it slowly, eyeing Sam appraisingly.

"You look like crap, Sammy," he stated crisply, the harsh words covering the underlying tone of worry.

"Me?" Sam huffed incredulously. "You should see yourself, Dean. I'd bring you a mirror, but you'd probably cry."

Dean sighed, leaning back against the pillow and dragging a hand down his face. "Yeah," he grunted softly. "It's been a rough couple of days."

Sam let out a strangled laugh that sounded almost like a sob. "Yeah," he echoed quietly. "Yeah, it has." Their gazes locked, unspoken communication passing between them.

Bobby quietly moved away from the bed and over to the table, giving the boys at least the illusion of privacy. He sat down and fiddled with Sam's laptop, but his attention was still fully fixed on the scene taking place across the room.

With a weary sigh, Sam sat down on the edge of the bed next to his brother, his back against the headboard, his shoulder brushing against Dean's. "I don't know what to do, Dean." He admitted with a whisper, his head bowed and shoulders slumped. "I feel so useless. I just…I just wish there was something I could do to help you."

Bobby saw Dean's eyebrows arch in surprise. "You are doing something to help me, Sam." The older man contradicted, nudging his brother with his shoulder. "You found the dagger. Now we can make the trade for the antidote and all this will be over."

Sam nodded, head still bowed. "Yeah, but in the meantime…," he trailed off, lifting his head long enough to give Dean a look laden with misery.

Dean bit his lip and looked away, obviously unable to face the fear and helplessness in his little brother's gaze. "You could always get me some more Tylenol," he suggested with false cheerfulness, his fingers idly fiddling with a hole in his jeans.

Sam snorted. "Are they even doing any good?" he asked dryly, leveling his brother with a challenging stare, daring him to tell the truth.

Dean hesitated, peeking at Sam from the corner of one eye. "No, not really," he finally replied honestly, his eyes dropping down to his lap.

"That's what I thought," Sam replied with a sigh, defeat heavy in his tone. "I can't even do that much to help you."

Dean's head snapped up, and he turned slightly, leveling Sam with his firmest gaze. "Look Sam, I'll be okay. Seriously. We found the dagger and all this will be over soon. You'll get the antidote…I know you will. But it will be a lot harder if you go into this half dead with exhaustion. You want to help me?...then get some sleep."

Sam shook his head slightly. "I don't know if I could sleep even if I tried," he replied quietly.

"Well try," Dean ordered, then added more softly, "…for me?"

Sam bowed his head, obviously thinking, but eventually he looked back up and met Dean's gaze. "Alright," he murmured. "I'll try. Just…just don't go anywhere."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, I was thinking of going out for a jog, but since you insist…"

Sam elbowed his brother in the shoulder. "Shut up, Jerk," he grumbled, but there was the hint of a smile on his face.

"Bitch." Dean gave the customary reply.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

It took less than five minutes before Sam was out, curled on his side facing Dean's bed, the worry and despair on his face slowly melting away in sleep.

Dean watched him sleep for a few moments, before struggling to maneuver himself out of bed. Bobby looked up from across the room, a small frown on his face, but Dean ignored him. No way was he sitting around in bed twiddling his thumbs while he waited for the next pain attack. He needed to be up…to be moving.

He walked across the room to his duffel bag, rooting around until he found some fresh clothes.

"I'm hitting the shower," he informed Bobby, fighting to keep his movements smooth and natural as he crossed the room, despite the shaking in his legs.

"Let me know if you need any help," Bobby huffed, and Dean paused, staring at the older hunter with arched eyebrows. Bobby scowled, and if Dean didn't know better, he would have sworn the other man blushed. "I ain't offering to give you a sponge bath," Bobby quickly clarified, "but if you need something…"

Dean laughed, genuine mirth temporarily loosening the tight knot of fear in his chest. "Whatever you say, old man." He quickly ducked into the bathroom and closed the door before Bobby could find something to throw at him.

The shower felt good, the hot water beating down on tired and sore muscles. Dean was a bit confused by the burgeoning bruises on his wrists and upper arms, but upon closer inspection, after making out the distinct imprint of fingers, he decided he'd rather _not_ know.

He stayed in the shower until his legs began quavering and he was forced to sit down on the side of the tub for a few minutes to regain his strength. After slowly drying and dressing, he moved over to the sink to shave, grimacing at his reflection in the mirror and remembering his brother's earlier words to him. He really did look a wreck, his complexion pale and pasty, eyes heavy lidded and dull.

"Love the new look, Dean," he muttered at his reflection. "You'll be picking up girls in the bars in no time. They'll all be dying to take you home, tuck you in bed, feed you chicken soup, and mother you to death."

His reflection grinned back at him as an inner voice answered, _Nah, that's what Sammy's for._

When he exited the bathroom it was to the strong aroma of coffee filling the room. Bobby had fired up the small pot located on the edge of the table and was currently pouring himself a cup of the black brew. Normally Dean would have helped himself to his own cup…or maybe two or three, but nausea had made itself his constant companion of late, and even the thought of coffee caused his stomach to clench painfully.

Instead, he walked over to the nightstand where he had left the glass of water Sam had brought him earlier, picking that up instead. He glanced down at his brother's sleeping form, and suddenly had to fight off the strong urge to reach down and smooth the long bangs back from Sam's forehead just as he had done when Sam was a child.

"I think he'll sleep for a while," Bobby stated quietly from across the room. "He was pretty beat."

Dean looked up and nodded, moving away from the bed to join Bobby at the table, slipping wearily down into the second chair. "The last couple of days have been pretty rough on him."

Bobby grunted. "Only on him, huh?"

Dean gave the older hunter a sardonic grin. "Yeah, it's been a real party. But all things considered, I guess I'm pretty lucky."

"Lucky?" Bobby echoed incredulously. "Not exactly the term I would use to describe all this."

Dean shrugged. "I don't know, Bobby. The pain attacks are…intense." _That's an understatement. _"But they only hit about every four hours and they don't last all that long…"

"Long enough," Bobby muttered softly, giving Dean a pointed look.

"Yeah," Dean coughed, shifting self-consciously in his chair, his hand absently rising to rub at the marks on his arm, hidden beneath his long sleeve shirt. He didn't really want to think about what Bobby had witnessed. "All I'm saying is, things could be a lot worse. I could be lying on the bed twitching and foaming at the mouth about now. At least this way I'm still functioning, still able to be of use."

Bobby grunted. "Silver lining, huh?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Something like that." He quickly changed the subject. "So tell me, what kind of plan did you and Sammy come up with while I was asleep?"

Bobby took a deep swallow of his coffee before answering. "You and Sam go in to make the trade, I position myself outside to cut off the Connley's retreat. Basically, we catch the bad guys in the middle…take 'em down."

Dean raised one eyebrow. "So we're keeping it simple and improvising if necessary," he summed it up.

"Yup," Bobby confirmed, smiling slightly as he took another sip of his coffee.

"Hey, that's fine with me," Dean replied. "I like my plans simple. It's Sammy that likes to get complicated."

Bobby snorted. "I think your brother's simply focused on getting that antidote…he's not thinking much beyond that at the moment."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, well, speaking of which…what are we planning on doing with the Connley's after we capture them and take away their little toy? Since we can't kill them or anything…" He added sardonically.

"Your brother's right about that, Dean," Bobby replied quietly. "Trust me, it would be only too easy to kill these bastards, but to do it we would have to cross a line that, once crossed, cannot be uncrossed."

"That's nice sentiment, Bobby," Dean argued, but it doesn't solve the problem. "I told Sam before and I'll say it again…there is no way I'm just letting these guys walk away."

Bobby shook his head. "We won't have to," he reassured. "I've been thinking about this, and I think I know how we can handle the Connley's…make sure they don't hurt anyone ever again."

"Yeah?" Dean replied, inviting Bobby to explain.

"I have a contact down in Mexico…a man whose family I once saved from a Black Dog. He runs a prison in a small town just over the border. If we can get the Connley's to him, he can make sure they stay locked up for the rest of their lives."

Dean pursed his lips and frowned. "And three white men in a Mexican prison aren't going to raise any flags?" he asked doubtfully.

Bobby shrugged. "Sure they will, but that's what's so great about Mexico. You put the right forged documents in the right hands, along with a little bribe, and everything is suddenly taken care of. It might not be ideal, but as long as it gets the job done…"

Dean nodded, willing to concede that Bobby's plan might just work. It was certainly better than anything he could come up with.

"So, we just hang out here for another couple of hours…let Sam get some sleep, then head down to Omaha for the exchange," he summed up, glancing over at the clock and noting that it was nearing 8:30. He did some quick mental math.

"That's the plan," Bobby agreed, his face softening as he sensed the direction of Dean's thoughts. "You said the attacks hit you every four hours?"

Dean gave a short nod of his head, feeling his stomach slowly begin to churn.

"Right," Bobby muttered, and Dean could see that the older man was doing his own quick math calculations.

Two more attacks. That's what he would have to endure before the meeting with the Connley's. He tried to tell himself that it would be no problem…that two more attacks was nothing. _It's just pain, _he thought dismissively. _Pain you know. Pain you can deal with._

But deep down, he knew it was a lie. This pain was unlike any he had ever experienced before. It attacked without warning, fierce and overwhelming, robbing him of all conscious thought. And the truth was, _thought_ had always been Dean's greatest line of defense when hurting.

_Hide it so that Sammy won't worry. Hide it so that Dad will know I'm strong enough_.

With this pain, there was no hiding it…no thought at all except to somehow survive it. And though it only lasted minutes, for Dean, trapped in the agony, it seemed more like hours. It had been bad at the beginning, but each consecutive attack seemed to get worse, and Dean honestly wasn't sure how much more he could take without going mad.

The waiting was almost as bad as the pain…knowing it was coming for him and knowing there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, nothing he could do to prepare for it. It was pure torture, and the truth was, Dean was terrified.

Bobby did his best to help distract him. They talked about the plan, discussing different possible scenarios and what their reactions would be. Dean showed Bobby the dagger, pulling it from Sam's coat pocket and letting the other hunter feel for himself the unnatural cold that blanketed the blade. They talked about old hunts and new hunters, about weapons and exorcisms, monsters and demons. They even discussed the possibility of Bobby getting a new dog to replace Rumsfeld.

Through it all, Sam slept, his exhaustion so deep that he didn't so much as twitch, even when Dean laughed out loud upon learning that Bobby _had_ tried to get a new dog, but had been forced to get rid of it when the mutt had developed the annoying habit of peeing on his boots every time he stepped out of the house.

Time slipped by, all too quickly in Dean's estimation, and when the clock neared 11:00, he found himself unable to sit still any longer, rising from the table to pace the room. His hands were sweating, his throat dry, heart pounding in an ever increasing tempo inside his chest.

_Get a hold of yourself, Winchester, _he berated himself scornfully, disgusted with his weakness. He was glad Sam was sleeping so he wouldn't have to witness how pathetic his brother had become. He found himself wishing he had a six pack, or better yet, some strong whisky so he could drink himself numb. Unfortunately, he didn't think his stomach could handle liquor at the moment.

Bobby had fallen silent, watching quietly from the table as Dean paced. Finally, he broke the silence.

"You told Sam the pain pills didn't help?" he said slowly, his tone making it more of a question than a statement, his expression thoughtful.

Dean paused and turned to look at him, nodding his head once in confirmation.

"Well, what if we try giving you something stronger?" Bobby suggested quietly, "something that might at least take the edge off?"

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Like what? I don't think I can handle whisky right now, Bobby, if that's what you're thinking. You've already seen me toss my cookies once today, I don't think you want a repeat performance."

Bobby shook his head. "Not whisky," he replied simply, "morphine."

Dean felt his eyes widen in surprise. "Morphine?" he repeated dumbly.

Bobby nodded. "I have some in my medical kit in the truck."

Dean stared at the older hunter, his mind whirring. Normally he avoided morphine at all costs, not really liking how the drug made him feel…all itchy and loopy. Still, he couldn't deny the flare of interest that flashed through him at the suggestion. The morphine would help relax him, keep him calm, and when the next attack came, it might just help with the pain as well.

"Yeah, okay," he agreed slowly. "That might just help, Bobby."

Bobby shrugged, rising from the table and heading toward the door. "The way I see it…it can't hurt," he replied.

Dean watched him go, suddenly anxious for the drug, needing it in a way he rarely allowed himself to need anything. He bit his lip and glanced toward his sleeping brother, wondering briefly what Sam would have to say about it. He wasn't physically injured…he had no broken bones or gaping lacerations…but that didn't mean the pain wasn't still very real, and he couldn't imagine Sam would deny him any chance to find some relief.

Bobby came back in the room and carried his medical bag over to the table. Dean followed, watching as Bobby removed a sealed package in the shape of a thick syringe from the top of the bag.

"This stuff will be out of my system before tonight, right?" he asked, voicing his only remaining concern. He was determined to be awake and alert for the meeting with the Connley's. Nothing was going to stop him from being there to back up his brother.

"Should be," Bobby assured him. "This is an auto-injector with a set dosage. It's not that high. A few hours in Wonderland, and you should be fine."

Dean nodded, his decision made. "Hit me," he ordered, holding his arm out and pushing the sleeve of his shirt up past his elbow.

Bobby unwrapped the auto-injector, then grabbed Dean's wrist, holding his arm steady as he placed the syringe over the soft flesh in the crook of his arm.

"What are you doing?" Sam's voice suddenly rang out, and Bobby paused with his finger over the button.

Dean shot a glance behind him to find Sam sitting up in the bed, watching them with wide eyes.

"It's morphine, Sam," Dean explained softly. "We think it might help."

Sam's eyes widened slightly, and Dean saw his brother's gaze skip to the clock on the bedside table, before flying back to Dean in realization. A brief frown of concern crossed his face, but was almost instantly replaced with a look of eagerness. "You really think it will help?" he asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, the hope in his voice almost painful in its intensity.

"Only one way to find out," Dean replied, turning back to Bobby and nodding at the older hunter to proceed. Bobby pressed the injector button, and Dean felt the brief sting as the needle slid into his skin, followed by a slight burning sensation as the medicine was injected.

Sam rose from the bed and came over to stand next to him, and Dean gave his brother a small smile. "If I start trying to sing karaoke, just knock me out, will ya?" he instructed wryly.

Sam grinned. "Ahh, but you do Celine Dion so well, Dean."

Dean shuddered in horror. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea…"

But a few minutes later Dean was sure it had been a good idea…a _very_ good idea. Muscles that had been tense for what seemed like ages finally began to loosen, and the ball of fear that had taken up residence in his stomach slowly began to fade. A sleepy lethargy settled over him, and he didn't fight it when Sam guided him back over to the bed and helped him lie down.

"Relax, Dean," Sam urged, pulling the blanket off his own bed and draping it across Dean's lap.

The blanket was still warm from Sam's body heat, and Dean snuggled down beneath it contentedly, grinning dopily up at his brother. "You'd make a good mother, Sam, you know that?" he mumbled, settling back against the pillows with a comfortable sigh.

Sam rolled his eyes, his expression a mixture of tolerant amusement. "Just try to rest," he ordered dryly, before turning away.

Dean watched from the bed as Bobby and Sam moved around the room, collecting their few belongings and packing them away in preparation for their departure. He felt more relaxed than he had in a _very_ long time, and was suddenly overcome by a wave of affection for their grizzled old hunter friend.

"Bobby, your amazing," he called from the bed, frowning slightly as the words came out sounding slightly slurred. Then he shrugged it away.

Bobby cast him a glance, shaking his head ruefully.

"Seriously," Dean pushed, though the word came out sounding more like "sersly." He decided he needed to prove his affection with a hug, and began struggling to sit up. Sam hurried over, pushing him back down to the bed with ease.

"Stay put, Dean," he ordered sternly, though he was grinning from ear to ear. "You can hug Bobby later."

"The hell he can," Bobby growled from across the room.

Dean sank back into the soft bed, wanting to ask his brother why his eyeballs felt so heavy, but losing track of the thought before he could get the words out. He closed his eyes, deciding a nap would be a good idea.

This time when the pain hit, Dean felt as though his body had been doused in oil and lit on fire. He threw his head back and tried to scream, but the only sound that came out was a gurgling cry as his vocal chords ignited in flame. He tried to flail away, to escape the heat and searing pain, but his body refused to move. _No, no, NO! _His mind cried in denial, his eyes flying open as he sought some sort of escape.

A fire demon stood before him, grinning cruelly as it reached out to caress him with a flaming hand. Dean did scream this time, the demon's touch doubling the agonizing torrents of agony already encompassing him. The fire demon laughed, the sound sending spikes of fear through his tortured body. He swore he could feel his skin melting, dripping off his bones like wax from a hot candle.

The demon reached out a second time, and Dean screamed again, arching away from the searing touch, choking and coughing on the smoke rising from his ruined body. He twisted and writhed, but could find no escape, no relief. The demon's laughter filled his ears, smoke and flame surrounded him, and Dean could do nothing but scream.

Scream, and beg for death.

TBC

_Hope you enjoyed. Let me know your thoughts…_


	4. Chapter 4

_**So sorry for the lateness in posting this. Real life has not been kind to me the last couple of weeks. **_

_**Thank you SO much to all of you who reviewed last chapter. I can't say enough how much I appreciate knowing that people are actually reading and enjoying this. It pushes me on despite how much "life" gets thrown at me!**_

_**So without further ado….**_

**Chapter 4**

Sam cupped his hands beneath the spray of the faucet, then splashed his face with the water, repeating the motion a second and then third time while he fought to maintain the thin thread of control he still had over his emotions. It was hard, especially since a big part of him wanted to cut that thread, sink down onto the cold floor, and cry his eyes out.

Dean probably would have called him a big girl just for thinking it.

That thought was almost his undoing, and he had to grab the edges of the sink, his head dropping between his bent shoulders as he choked back a small sob. He stood there for several minutes, his breath coming in harsh rasps, his eyes burning with tears he refused to allow to fall. He knew he couldn't lose it now. He had to be strong…his brother needed him. If their positions had been reversed, Dean wouldn't break. He would merely wall away his emotions and find a way to do what needed to be done.

But Sam had never been as good at building walls as his brother.

He could still hear the echoes of Dean's screams…his broken pleas to let him die. Sam had tried to offer comfort, but his touch had just seemed to bring his brother even more pain, and he had eventually given up and just focused on holding Dean down so he wouldn't hurt himself. It hadn't been as hard this time, the drugs in Dean's system making his struggles weak and feeble.

_At least that's one thing the morphine was good for,_ Sam thought bitterly.

This last attack had lasted for almost fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of pure hell that Sam knew he wasn't likely to forget for the rest of his life. And the worst part was, he knew he was going to have to go through it all over again in a few hours.

"No!" The denial tore from his lips like a curse, and he lurched back from the sink to dig in his pocket for his phone. He was going to call Jeffram Connley and demand they move up their meeting. He was done sitting around watching his brother suffer.

But after listening to the line ring for over a full minute, Sam finally snapped the phone shut and tossed it away to clatter against the edge of the tub. He swore, slamming his fist down against the sink, relishing the sharp pain that radiated through his hand.

Despair settled like a heavy blanket around him, leaving the door open for doubt. What if something went wrong during the trade tonight? What if the Connley's double crossed them and gave them a fake antidote? There was no way they would be able to know…not until it was too late. It was a very real possibility, and Sam felt his stomach clench with fear at the very thought.

As if in direct reply to the doubts plaguing him, Dean's words from earlier suddenly rose up in his mind: _You'll get the antidote…I know you will." _

Sam swallowed hard, raising his head to look at his reflection in the mirror. Eyes dark with grief and doubt stared back at him. He knew Dean could have easily used the word "we" instead of "you", but he hadn't, and Sam doubted it was an accident. Dean had been telling his little brother that he had faith in him…that he trusted him.

Sam only wished he could find the same faith in himself.

He couldn't seem to get past the fear that he would somehow mess up and Dean would die. He would lose his brother, just as he had lost his father…and Jessica…and his mom. If that happened, Sam wasn't at all sure he would be able to survive it. Without Dean, he wasn't sure he would want to.

With a weary sigh, Sam pushed his dark thoughts away, knowing they wouldn't help him get the job done. He scooped down to retrieve his phone, then turned on his heel and strode from the bathroom.

Bobby was waiting for him in the other room, his features pale and drawn, his gaze worried. "You okay, kid?" he asked softly as soon as Sam stepped into the room.

"Yeah," Sam answered tonelessly, the lie bitter on his tongue. He had never been further from okay.

His gaze slipped past Bobby to the bed where his brother lay, looking disturbingly small and fragile beneath the thin motel blanket. Dean had slipped into unconsciousness almost as soon as the attack was over, the drugs finally pulling him under

"I'm sorry, Sam," Bobby said quietly, his voice laced with true regret. "I honestly thought it would work."

"It's not your fault, Bobby," Sam answered dully, his gaze still locked on his brother's still form. "It was a good idea. It just…didn't work."

Bobby shifted uncertainly. "We could stay a little longer…" he began, but Sam cut him off with a quick shake of his head.

"No, let's get on the road." He didn't think he could stand another minute in this hotel room. He needed to be doing something, even if it was just driving.

Bobby helped him load their bags in the trunk and then they went back for Dean. They managed to wake him up just enough to get him sitting up, but between the lingering effects of the morphine and the exhaustion brought on by the pain attack, he was still pretty out of it. Sam knelt next to the bed and pulled one of Dean's arms over his shoulder, snaking his own arm around his brother's waist. Then he stood, pulling Dean upright with him, his brother's weight heavy against him as Dean stumbled and struggled to find his feet. Bobby moved forward to help, taking hold of Dean's other side.

Together they managed to maneuver Dean out of the room and over to the car. It only took a few minutes to get him settled in the front seat, his head nestled on Sam's jacket against the glass of the window, his eyes almost immediately slipping closed.

"I'll follow you in the truck," Bobby grunted, and Sam nodded, moving around the Impala to slide into the driver's seat. The last time he had driven Dean's car this much, his brother had been dying from a damaged heart. Sam wondered how long it would take before every time he drove the car he associated it with worry and grief.

Turning the radio on but keeping it low, he tried to block out all thought as he pulled out of the hotel parking lot and headed for the highway. He knew he should be mentally preparing for tonight's meeting, but there was honestly little else he could do to get himself ready. He just had to get hold of the antidote…nothing else much mattered beyond that.

The miles slipped steadily by as Dean slept beside him, the sound of his deep and even breathing having a surprising calming effect on Sam. He was glad his brother was getting rest, even if it was drug induced. He wished Dean could just keep sleeping and not wake up until all this was over and Sam had the antidote. He knew it was wishful thinking though. Somehow the poison seemed to deny his brother the luxury of unconsciousness when the pain attacked, even when heavily drugged. It wasn't fair, but nothing about their lives ever really was.

Sam knew the minute his brother began to wake up. He started shifting around slightly on the seat, his features twisting in a small grimace of discomfort, a low moan rising from his throat. Sam watched him through brief glances to the side, waiting until the moment his brother came fully awake.

"Hey," He greeted quietly, when Dean's eyes finally peeled open. His brother lifted one hand to rub at his eyes, then turned to glance at the clock on the dash. Sam felt something twist in his gut at the look in his brother's eyes as he mentally calculated how much time he had left before the next round of torture.

Sam found it amazing how little time had mattered to him before their run in with the Connley's. Now, it was at the forefront of every thought, and he couldn't seem to keep his gaze off the clock.

Dean straightened in his seat, biting off another low moan. Sam knew his brother had to be really sore, and from the small glances he was able to steal in Dean's direction, he could clearly make out the two bright patches of pink on his brother's otherwise pale face that marked the return of his fever.

"Where are we?" Dean asked gruffly, glancing out the front windshield at the rows of fields passing by.

"About two hours out of Omaha," Sam replied quietly. "Bobby's behind us in his truck."

Dean nodded, then settled back against the seat, his head falling against the glass of the passenger window with a dull thunk.

"How are you feeling?" Sam dared ask, darting quick looks at his brother from across the car.

Dean didn't answer right away, and Sam found himself unconsciously holding his breath, wondering if he would receive the patented Winchester response, or if his brother would dare open up to him.

"Itchy," Dean finally answered, punctuating the comment by scratching at his forearms.

Sam blinked in surprise at the unexpected reply, then found himself letting out a sudden huff of laughter. "Yeah, that would be the morphine," he answered, a genuine smile flitting briefly across his face.

"You know, with the amount of research that goes into developing this stuff, you'd think they would have figured out how to get rid of that particular side effect by now," Dean groused, still scratching at his arms. "It's annoying as hell."

Sam recognized the redirect and decided to roll with it. "I don't think scientists are too worried about a little itching, Dean. They're too busy trying to cure cancer or figure out the secrets of the universe."

"Secrets of the universe?" Dean scoffed. "A bunch of overeducated morons, if you ask me. You remember that scientist in Portland who told dad to his face that science disproved the possibility of the existence of ghosts…and that was _after_ the man saw the spirit of his dead mother floating right before his eyes?"

Sam laughed. "Yeah. He thought dad was pulling some elaborate hoax on him. Dad was so pissed I thought he was going to punch the dude's lights out."

"He would have deserved it," Dean snorted.

"Yeah," Sam agreed lightly, feeling some of the tension lift from his shoulders at the light banter.

For the next hour they made insignificant small talk as the miles slipped past them. It was like every other time they were in the car together, driving to their next gig, passing the time arguing about cars, or music, or movies. Sam almost would have been able to forget their current predicament, if it weren't for the clock on the dash, marking the inevitable passage of time, each minute that ticked by bringing them inescapably closer to the next pain attack.

When the clock struck 3 PM, their conversation trailed off, and the car was full of silence once more. Sam could feel his muscles slowly tightening, his stomach clenching painfully in apprehension. He watched from the corner of his eye as Dean settled back against the door of the car, eyes closing, the picture of relaxed indifference. Sam knew better. He could make out the tension in his brother's shoulders, the tightly clenched fists hidden beneath Dean's crossed arms.

At 3:15, Sam pulled off the highway at a remote exit, a broken down gas station the only sign of civilization. He pulled into the abandoned parking lot next to the station, Bobby's truck pulling up behind him. Shutting off the engine, he slowly turned toward his brother. Dean's eyes were open, his green gaze watching Sam intently.

_I don't think I can do this again._ The thought ran through Sam's head before he could stop it, and he instantly felt a flash of guilt. He wasn't the one about to suffer through agonizing, debilitating pain. If Dean could hold it together, he certainly could too.

"Sammy…" Dean started to speak, then broke off, swallowing hard. A moment later he tried again. "Sammy, I want you to do something for me. You're not going to like it, but…" he trailed off again, a war of emotions crossing his features.

"Dean, what is it?" Sam asked, willing to do just about anything at the moment if it could ease some of his brother's suffering.

Dean bit his lip, his gaze rising to lock with Sam's. "I want you to get out of the car and go join Bobby in the truck," he finally stated softly, his eyes intense as they bore into Sam.

Sam blinked, for a moment not comprehending exactly what his brother was asking of him. Then realization dawned, and he found himself shaking his head vehemently. "No, Dean. No way. I'm staying right here. I'm not going anywhere!"

"Sam," Dean's voice was a whispered plea. "You can't do anything to help me. There's no reason you need to watch this."

Sam continued to shake his head. "I'm your brother, Dean," he snapped, suddenly angry that Dean would even _think _Sam could just walk away and leave him to suffer alone. "I'm not leaving you to face this by yourself!"

"You can't help me, Sam," Dean repeated softly. "Honestly, when the pain hits, I don't even know you're there."

"Yeah, but _I_ know." Sam snapped. "I'm not leaving you Dean. There's no way in hell!"

Dean closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again, his gaze imploring. "I don't want you here, Sam," he stated quietly, the words piercing through Sam like small daggers. Dean saw his hurt look and pressed on. "This poison is robbing me of everything, Sammy. My health, my strength…my courage," he choked off, eyes dropping down to his lap.

And suddenly Sam understood. He had thought Dean was asking him to leave in some misguided attempt to protect his little brother, but now he realized that it was much more than that. The pain attacks left Dean stripped bare, his pain and fear laid open for all to see. For someone like his brother…someone who had spent a lifetime building walls to hide all his emotions behind…having that wall ripped away like that was a unique kind of torture all on its own. When the pain hit, Dean couldn't control his reaction, couldn't even control his own body. The only thing he _could_ control was who he allowed to see him like that.

Dean's request was a plea for a little dignity…nothing else.

Sam turned to look out his window, fighting down the lump rising in his throat, the burning sensation building behind his eyes. "Would_ you_ leave _me_?" he found himself asking softly, his gaze still turned away to stare out the window.

He heard his brother shift behind him, but Dean didn't answer. He didn't need to. They both already knew the answer. But then, Sam's strength didn't lie in his walls...his strength lay in his brother. Dean _was_ his wall…had been ever since they were kids. And right now he wished he could be the same for Dean. Wished that his brother would allow him to be.

He felt Dean's hand close around his wrist, the grip soft and yet firm. He turned back to face his brother, staring into green eyes that pleaded for his understanding…his agreement. "Please, Sammy?"

Sam stared at Dean as another precious minute ticked away, unable to tear his gaze away. Then, at last, he gave a slow nod. Twisting his wrist so he could grab onto his brother's hand, he gave it a single, quick squeeze, then turned and grabbed for the handle of the door. He knew he had to get out of the car now, before he had a chance to change his mind, to come up with all the reasons why this was a bad idea…why it was _wrong._

Then he was out, the door slamming closed behind him, cutting him off from his brother, and Sam felt something wrench deep inside him. The pain was intense, but he pushed it down, striding quickly away from the Impala and toward the truck.

Bobby saw him coming and started to climb from the vehicle, but Sam shook his head wordlessly, moving around the front end of the truck and climbing into the passenger seat beside the old hunter. A shiver racked his body, though the interior of the truck was far from cold.

"Sam?" Bobby's voice was full of question, his head tilted to one side as he waited for an explanation.

"He wants to be alone, Bobby," Sam said simply, turning away from the other man's startled look, staring out his window at the open field beyond. He couldn't bring himself to face forward.

"That's crazy, Sam," Bobby objected. "We can't leave him alone in there. What if he hurts himself?"

Sam almost laughed at the absurdity of Bobby's statement. Still, he understood what the older man was saying. If Dean flailed and thrashed around in the throes of the pain attack, there was the possibility he might actually harm himself. But Sam had made his decision, and he couldn't go back on it now.

"It's what he wants, Bobby," he answered softly, still gazing out the side window. "I can't do anything to help him, but I can give him this."

He heard Bobby shift behind him and half expected their old friend to argue, but Bobby only let out a long sigh. Silence reigned in the truck but for the soft music drifting from the radio.

The distance between the two vehicles wasn't all that great, and so Sam heard the first muted cry that drifted back to them from the Impala. He clenched his hands into fists and grit his teeth until his jaw ached, keeping his gaze locked out the side window. He tried to blank his mind, to focus on the song playing on the radio, or the birds flittering in the trees on the edge of the field, but he still felt his body jerk with every soft cry that reached them. He felt the wetness of tears on his cheeks, but couldn't bring himself to care.

"Sam, are you sure..?" Bobby asked several minutes later, his own voice anguished.

Sam merely nodded, not trusting his voice. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to go to his brother, to do something…anything. But Dean was right. There was nothing he could do…nothing but honor his brother's wishes, no matter how much it hurt.

Not for the first time, Sam found himself wishing Jeffram had chosen _him_ to poison instead of his brother. Right at the moment, he was pretty sure he would take the physical pain over the mental agony of watching, and now listening, to his brother's anguish. He couldn't get past the feeling that if their positions had been reversed, Dean would have already found a way to fix things. Dean was like a force of nature when it came to protecting his family, not allowing anyone or anything to get in his way. Sam just felt useless and weak.

"He's strong, Sam. He'll get through this," Bobby stated softly from across the cab of the truck.

Sam nodded, having never really questioned that fact. He just wished that for once Dean didn't _have_ to be the strong one.

The minutes slipped by and eventually the muffled cries faded away. Sam turned his gaze forward for the first time, but his brother's form was hidden from his vantage point by the slope of the back window. Sam waited an extra two minutes, his heart racing and his palms sweaty, before he yanked open the door and jumped down from the truck, Bobby immediately following behind him.

Sam had every intention of walking calmly to the car, but his body had different ideas, and before he could stop himself he was jogging forward, skidding to a halt next to the passenger door and leaning down to grab the handle. He yanked the door open and crouched down, his eyes immediately resting on his brother's hunched form lying halfway across the front seat.

"Dean?" he called worriedly, reaching in to grab at his brother's shoulder.

His heart shuddered in relief when Dean groaned in response, his hand coming up to grab Sam's forearm weakly. Sam adjusted his grip and gently pulled his brother upright, aware of Bobby hovering just behind him. Dean's face and neck were bathed in sweat, his breathing harsh and loud, and Sam felt his brother's body shuddering beneath his touch. But when Dean looked up at him, there was something shining in his eyes…a quiet triumph.

Dean's hand reached out and fisted in Sam's t-shirt, pulling him closer, and his voice when he spoke was rough and gravelly, but filled with steely determination.

"Let's go get these bastards, Sammy. Let's finish this!"

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

The address that the Connley's provided for the trade was on the outskirts of Omaha, in a district filled mostly with old factories and run-down warehouses. Bobby sat in the back seat of the Impala, having parked his truck at a nearby gas station, and listened to the ongoing argument from the seat in front of him.

"All I'm saying, Dean, is that Bobby and I can handle the Connley's. You don't have to play the hero every time."

"This has nothing to do with playing hero, Sam," Dean retorted hotly. "In case you failed to notice, the Connley's made this kinda personal when they poisoned me. There is no way in hell I'm sitting this one out."

"Dean, you're sick and hurting…"

"Not sick enough that I can't hold a gun. I'm coming in and that's final, Sam."

Bobby swallowed a sigh from the back seat. The boys were so caught up in their argument that he bet they had already forgotten he was there. Bobby's chips were currently down on Dean, and he frankly wondered why Sam was even bothering to try. Sam knew Dean better than anyone else…surely he knew there was absolutely no way his brother was going to be left out of this fight. Bobby had a better chance of marrying a super model than Sam did of winning this argument.

But Sam was worried, and worry sometimes hampered clear thinking.

Not that Sam didn't have a perfectly good reason to be worried. Dean looked worse than crap. All it took was one look at his pale face and heavy lidded eyes, and the fact that he was dying was impossible to ignore. Bobby couldn't really blame Sam from trying to sideline his brother… even if it was pointless.

"Well at least hang back and let me take the lead," Sam begged, turning the car into an empty lot several blocks from their destination and parking it under a broken out street light. "Please, Dean."

"Yeah, whatever you say, dude." Dean answered dismissively.

It wasn't good enough for Sam. "Dean…" he entreated, his gaze locking on his brother.

A completely silent conversation took place then, neither brother speaking aloud but discussing the issue with a series of looks, grimaces, pleading glances, and resigned shrugs. It wasn't the first time Bobby had seen this. When the boys had been kids, he had often marveled at how they could communicate so effortlessly with each other without ever saying a word. It was a testament to the close bond between them.

"Well, now that _that's_ settled," Bobby growled from the back seat, causing both boys to start slightly, confirming his suspicion that he had been temporarily forgotten. "I think I'll head over to the meeting spot now, scout the place out. Give me about ten minutes."

"Yeah, okay," Sam said quickly, twisting around to give him a small smile. "Thanks Bobby."

Bobby nodded, climbing from the car before turning to give the two young men a stern glance. "You boys be careful," he admonished sternly.

"You too, Bobby," Dean replied roughly, and Sam nodded his agreement.

With a small shake of the head, Bobby quickly made his way down the darkening streets. As he neared the address the Connley's had sent to Sam, he abandoned the road and began making his way down the back lots and narrow alleys that made up this portion of the industrial neighborhood. He reached his destination in less than five minutes, stopping on the outskirts of a nearby building to study the place. It was a single story warehouse, run down and dilapidated, but obviously still in use. Using stealth born from years of hunting… both natural and supernatural…Bobby skirted along the edge of the building, his eyes expertly scanning for anything that might be of importance

After another five minutes, inspection complete, he called Dean.

"It's a warehouse," he informed Dean as soon as the other hunter answered. "Single story. No windows. Three doors. The bay doors in the front look to be locked with a chain and padlock, so I don't think we have to worry about them. The main entrance is to the left of the bay doors and there's another door at the back of the building. No cameras. There's a black van parked out front, which I'm guessing belongs to your _friends_."

There was a brief pause as Bobby heard Dean relay the information quickly to Sam, then he came back on the phone. "Okay, Bobby. It's almost six. Sam and I are going to be headed your way. Park yourself somewhere outside that back door. After we make the trade, we'll keep the Connley's from going out the front, which means they'll high-tail it to the back. They won't be expecting you, so you'll have the element of surprise on your side. Just hold them off long enough for Sam and I to get there, and we'll sandwich them between us."

Bobby nodded, though neither of the boys could see it. "There's a couple of dumpsters not too far from the back door." He informed Dean. "I'll hide myself there. You boys just be ready to haul ass and back me up. Element of surprise or not, three-to-one odds isn't something I want to hold for too long."

Dean snorted, and Bobby half expected the elder Winchester to come back with some smart-aleck response about Bobby losing his touch. Instead, Dean's voice was deadly serious as he answered, "Something tells me these guys won't go down without a fight, Bobby. You can try to get them to surrender, but don't take any risks. And whatever you do, don't let them get anywhere near you with that dagger."

"No worries," Bobby growled, patting his jacket pocket and feeling the comforting weight of his handgun tucked safely inside. "A knife fight isn't exactly on my agenda."

"Good, let's keep it that way," came the terse response. "Let's get this show on the road. See ya on the flip side, old man."

"Yeah," Bobby grunted, "And then I can show you just were to put that 'old man' crap."

Dean chuckled, then cut the connection. Bobby pocketed his phone, drew out his gun and began making his way cautiously toward the back of the warehouse.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Lowering the phone, Dean turned to glance at his brother. "You ready to do this?" he asked.

Sam gave him a tense nod, his gaze sharp as he replied. "You?"

Dean returned his brother's nod. Any other time he might have given some cocky response about being born ready, tried to erase the worry in his brother's eyes by putting on a false front of unconcerned bravado, but at the moment he just wasn't feeling it. He was playing wounded and he knew it, Sam knew it, and no amount of bluster would change that fact.

He was sick, weak, and in pain, every muscle achy and sore and his limbs shaky and unsteady. But if there was one thing his father had taught him how to do, it was how to hide his pain and weakness behind a brick wall in order to do what needed to be done. Today was no different. That fact that he was dying…that if things went badly, he was only a few short hours away from biting the big one…made little difference. He had to play this just like he played any other hunt…watch out for his brother and make sure the bad guys didn't get away. It was as simple as that.

Sam was still watching him intently, and Dean met his brother's gaze calmly, arching a single eyebrow in question. He hoped his brother wasn't about to start in again with his requests that Dean sit this one out. There was just no way it was going to happen.

As if reading his thoughts, Sam let out a resigned sigh and turned away, twisting the key in the ignition and starting the Impala's engine. They drove the few blocks to the warehouse in silence, the anticipation of the upcoming confrontation charging the air between them.

Sam parked the Impala in front of the van and they both climbed out, simultaneously pulling their guns free and sharing a quick look before heading for the entrance to the warehouse. Almost nonchalantly, Sam slipped a few steps ahead of Dean, reaching the door first and casting his brother a short glance over his shoulder. "Be careful in there," he cautioned seriously.

"Right back at you," Dean replied, and Sam nodded before turning back and pulling the door open.

They slipped into the warehouse silently, Dean quickly moving up to stand beside his brother, their guns held at the ready. Pausing just inside the entrance, they took quick stock of their surroundings.

The warehouse was made up of a single large room. They were currently standing at one end of a wide corridor that cut straight down the center of the building, rows of boxes and crates stretching out to either side of them. At the other end of the corridor was a glass enclosed office, and next to that, the back door. Two industrial fans whirred away overhead, filling the warehouse with their low hum.

They had time for no more than a quick scan before movement at the far end of the corridor caught their attention. Jeffram Connley stepped out from the shadows of one of the far rows of crates, his son Eli closely shadowing him. Both men were armed, their guns held low but ready as they moved to the center of the corridor and faced off with Sam and Dean across the open expanse of the warehouse. Dean saw a flicker of surprise cross both men's features as their gaze settled on him.

_They didn't think I'd be here,_ Dean realized, the thought filling him with a sense of grim satisfaction. _Well, surprise, boys. It takes more than a little poison to sideline a Winchester_.

"Glad you could make it," Jeffram greeted coolly from across the room, before adding with a smirk, "How are you feeling Dean? You look a bit under the weather."

Dean felt Sam stiffen beside him, and quickly gave his brother a discreet nudge with his shoulder. He returned Jeffram's mocking smile with a cold one of his own. "Allergies," he replied dismissively. "They're a real pain in the ass this time of year, but I'll live."

Jeffram blinked, his smile slipping momentarily before he managed to plaster it back on. "Ah well, that all depends on whether you brought my dagger, now doesn't it, Dean?"

Dean's only response was an unconcerned shrug of one shoulder.

"Where's Joseph?" Sam demanded, leveling the other man with a steely gaze.

It was Jeffram's turn to give a nonchalant shrug. "I left him back at the hotel," he replied coolly. "Call it a show of good faith. Now there is two of you and two of us. Makes things fair."

Dean and Sam exchanged a quick glance, neither of them believing Jeffram for even a moment.

"Yeah, because you strike me as the fair and square type of guy," Dean snorted, not at all liking the fact that the youngest Connley was unaccounted for. It made his skin itch, and he cast his brother another quick glance, the warning clear in his gaze. Sam gave him a minute nod, letting him know that he was aware of the problem and would remain watchful. Dean still didn't like it, but there wasn't much else they could do about it now.

"Look," Jeffram replied reasonably. "You have what I want, and I have what you want. We make the trade and both of us leave happy, it's as simple as that. Now, where is my dagger?"

"You show us yours and we'll show you ours," Dean retorted coolly.

Jeffram scowled, but he didn't bother arguing, just nodded toward his son. Eli reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the familiar glass vial and waved it tantalizing in the air in front of him.

"How do we know that's really the antidote?" Sam demanded, his tone taking on a hard edge.

Jeffram shrugged. "You don't," he replied easily. "But tell me, Sam, what would you do if it turns out its not?"

"I would hunt you down and kill you," Sam replied immediately, a cold certainty to his voice that had Dean blinking at his brother in startled surprise.

Jeffram seemed to have expected such an answer. "Exactly," he replied, as though Sam had proven some sort of point. "The last thing my family needs is a hunter on our tails…especially a hunter with your reputation. Trust me, it's the real thing."

Dean could see the tension in Sam's shoulders, but his brother didn't bother to respond. Honestly, at this point they didn't have a whole lot of choices _but _to trust Jeffram, as hard as that was.

"Show me my dagger," Jeffram demanded a second time.

Dean watched as Sam reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the cloth wrapped bundle. Holding it gingerly, he used the muzzle of his gun to push back the top layers of cloth, revealing the ruby hilt of the dagger. He held the bundle up, tilting it so that Jeffram and his son could clearly see it.

Dean saw a look of raw greed and desire flash across Jeffram's face at the sight of the dagger, the expression mirrored in his eldest son. He clenched his jaw, feeling the bitter taste of hatred build in the back of his throat. These men didn't care how many people they had hurt…how many people they had killed. They were the worst kind of monster in his book, betraying their own kind for a chance at immortality.

But that was all going to end.

Today.

"Okay, this is how we are going to do this," Jeffram stated, his greedy eyes still locked on the dagger in Sam's hand. "You and Eli will meet in the middle and make the trade. Then each side backs away. You go out the front door and we'll go out the back. There's no reason we should ever have to see each other again."

Dean felt his heart pick up pace at the thought of Sam exposed and vulnerable at the center of the room. "Sam, let me…" he started, but Sam was already shaking his head.

"I'm good, Dean," he whispered back. "I know you've got my back."

Dean sighed, touched by his brother's faith in him. "Just make the trade quick and get back here," he ordered, his worry making his voice rough.

Sam nodded, then very deliberately raised his gun so that Jeffram and Eli could see it, before clicking the safety on and slipping it into his coat pocket. Dean understood why his brother was doing it, but it didn't help with the sudden flair of panic at the realization Sam was now virtually defenseless, completely reliant on his sick and somewhat shaky brother to keep him from harm.

Across the room, Eli smirked at Sam before pocketing his own gun with a dismissive shrug, as if to say he hadn't really needed it in the first place. Which wasn't entirely untrue. After all, Sam was about to hand him a different, but no less deadly, weapon in just a few moments.

Casting Dean one last glance over his shoulder, Sam began to move slowly forward across the room, Eli matching him pace for pace from the other end of the corridor. Dean readjusted his grip on the handle of his gun, keeping the barrel low but muscles bunched and ready to raise it at any sign of threat from either Eli or his father.

When they were only a few paces away from each other, both Sam and Eli came to a stop, studying each other warily. Then, slowly, Sam lifted the bundle holding the dagger while Eli simultaneously held out the vial containing the antidote.

Dean watched the exchange warily while also keeping his eye on Jeffram. If the older man's gun so much as twitched, Dean was prepared to take him down.

Reaching out with his left hand, Sam grasped the vial containing the antidote while Eli mirrored his actions and grasped at the cloth covered dagger. Then both men released their hold on the opposite object and took a quick step back.

Dean found himself releasing the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. But whatever relief he felt was short lived. Before Sam could even take a second step back, the door behind Jeffram suddenly burst open. For a brief second, Dean thought it was Bobby making his move, but a moment later he recognized the stocky form of Eli's second son, Joseph.

The young man slammed the door behind him, twisting the lock to secure it before stumbling forward toward Jeffram. "Dad, it's a trap," he shouted. "They have back-up waiting to ambush us outside!"

Dean's breath caught, and for a moment, everything froze.

Then, all hell broke loose.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

The dumpsters stank.

Bobby wrinkled his nose in disgust as he tucked himself in next to the trash, slipping his gun free from his pocket. He crouched down, concealed in the heavy shadows cast by the last rays of the late evening sun, his eyes on the heavy metal door directly across from him. A few minutes later he heard the throaty rumble of the Impala and knew the boys had arrived, though he couldn't see them from his current position. He blew out a soft sigh, readjusted his grip on the handle of his gun, and then settled back to wait.

The minutes slipped slowly by. It was tough, not knowing what was happening inside, but Bobby pushed aside his worry and focused solely on the job to come.

He honestly hoped the Connley's would surrender without a fuss, but just like Dean, he found himself doubting it. Bobby was prepared to use lethal force to keep them from escaping with the dagger, but he was all too aware that they would have even less qualms about killing him. It was hard not to think about all the different ways this whole thing could go dangerously wrong.

As if in direct connection to his dark thoughts, something moved in the shadows next to the building. Bobby became instantly alert, staring at the spot intently. The shadows moved again, and he brought his gun up, only to lower it again almost instantly as the lanky shape of a dog broke from the darkness and began to trot toward the dumpsters.

_Stupid mutt,_ Bobby thought disgruntledly.

The dog was only a few paces away when it must have sensed him, because it suddenly froze, the fur on the back of its neck rising.

"Ah, crap," he muttered, grinding his teeth as the dog began to bark furiously. He glanced around him for something he could throw at it, hoping to scare it off. Finding a fairly large rock next to his heel, he turned back around…and immediately froze.

Behind the dog, tucked into the heavy shadows at the back of the building was the unmistakable form of a man. Even as Bobby watched, the dog sensed the man's presence, twirled around and gave one last bark before taking off in the opposite direction, tail tucked neatly between its leg.

Bobby immediately dropped the rock and brought both hands up to grip his gun, but the man was already moving, diving toward the back entrance. Bobby's fingers tightened on the trigger, but it was too late. The man yanked open the door to the warehouse and disappeared inside in the blink of an eye, slamming the door closed behind him.

Swearing to make a sailor proud, Bobby leapt from his position and raced to the door, reaching out to grab the handle and giving it a vicious yank. The door didn't budge, obviously having been locked from the inside. Bobby took a step back and glared at it.

Indecision gripped him. Did he maintain his guard on the back door, or did he go around to the front and try to provide back-up for the boys inside the warehouse. With the element of surprise gone, he felt more inclined to join Sam and Dean inside. Yet he knew if he left the door unguarded, there was always the chance the Connley's might slip away and make good their escape.

He was still debating his choice when the muted sound of gunfire erupted from inside the warehouse.

Decision made, Bobby turned and sprinted around the corner and down the side of the warehouse toward the front entrance, praying he wasn't already too late.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Sam knew the game was up the minute Joseph entered the warehouse.

His heart rate picked up speed even as everything else seemed to slow down, and for a moment everyone stood frozen. Then, in the blink of an eye, the spell was broken and Sam saw Jeffram start to raise his gun. At the same time, both Joseph and Eli began reaching for their own weapons.

"Sam, get out of there!"

He didn't need Dean's shout of warning to realize that he was in a very bad place, open and exposed in the center of the corridor. Not bothering to waste precious seconds going for his own gun, he twisted around and pelted for the nearest row of crates.

He had taken no more than three steps when the sound of gunfire erupted behind him. In desperation he threw himself forward, air leaving him in a pained gasp as he felt a bullet graze across the skin of his side, just below his ribs. And then he was coming down behind the row of crates, his flight through the air ending in a bone crushing slam onto the cold cement floor. His shoulder took the brunt of the fall, and a sharp flare of pain shot down his arm and up into his neck.

He lay there dazed for a moment, trying to catch his breath, his body alight with pain. Then survival instinct took over and he found himself pushing to his feet, biting back a groan as he stumbled further down the row of crates, trying to put as much distance between himself and any pursuers as he could. His left arm hung throbbing and useless at his side, and he could feel the growing stain of blood soaking his shirt underneath his coat, but he ruthlessly blocked out the pain as he moved resolutely forward. He took the first turn he came to, running down that isle before taking another turn, attempting to lose himself in the maze of boxes and crates.

Behind him the gunfire had fallen silent, and in its wake the warehouse seemed eerily silent, the only sound the low hum of the overhead fans and Sam's own ragged breathing.

_Dean!_

His brother's name was a silent cry in his mind. His heart was pounding so fast he was beginning to feel dizzy, and it had little to do with his running or even his pain. He was terrified for his brother. He had no way of knowing if Dean was okay, or if he was lying injured…or worse…back at the center of the warehouse. He knew calling out to his brother would only reveal their position to the Connley's, but with his fear ratcheting higher with each passing moment of silence, he was beginning to think it was worth the risk.

Jeffram's loud voice suddenly echoed throughout the warehouse, tight with anger.

"You boys should have known better than to try and double cross me. We're going to find you and kill you both!"

Sam paused, letting out a low breath of relief. Well, that answered that question. Now he knew Dean had managed to escape as well. He just needed to find his brother so they could deal with the Connley's together.

He moved forward to the corner of two intersecting rows, peering around a wooden crate cautiously as he tried to calm his breathing. His shoulder was aching mercilessly, and the sting of the bullet wound was becoming harder to ignore as well. He hadn't had a chance to inspect either injury, but he knew the wound below his ribs was deep and still bleeding. If he didn't take care of it soon, he would start leaving a blood trail that could possibly lead his enemies straight to him.

It wasn't until he raised his hand up to swipe down his face that he realized he was still clutching the glass vial containing the antidote. He blinked at the vial in surprise, amazed that he had managed to forget it even for a moment. Carefully tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket, he reached for his gun, pulling the weapon out and clicking the safety off. Their plan had gone up in smoke, and Sam needed to prepare himself for anything.

A slight scuffing sound somewhere off to his right had him tensing, listening intently. He instinctively knew it wasn't his brother. Even sick and weak, Dean was too experienced a hunter to make any noise that could give his position away.

Gripping his gun tightly, Sam debated his next move. He could move away from the noise, or go and check it out. He knew what Dean would do. His brother was never one to back down from a fight, no matter what the circumstances. If he could take down one of the Connley's, it would mean one less person hunting them.

Decision made, Sam slipped soundless around the corner and moved cautiously down the row in the direction he had heard the noise, his senses on high alert. When he reached the next cross section, he pressed himself up against a wooden crate and carefully peered around the corner and down the next row.

He spotted Joseph immediately. The man was moving slowly away from him down the aisle, gun in hand, head moving cautiously from side to side. Sam sank back behind the crate, debating his next move. If he could sneak up behind Joseph and take the man out, it would be one less problem to deal with. But it was also a risky move. With his shoulder not functioning properly and the wound to his side, he couldn't risk a fight, and if Joseph sensed him coming… that was exactly what would happen.

He peeked back around the crate just in time to see Joseph pause at the intersection of two rows. The man peered to his left, then suddenly stiffened, staring intently down the adjacent aisle. A slow smile suddenly curled up the edges of his mouth, the look of a predator that finally had his prey in his sights. He started to lift his gun, his focus completely on whatever he was seeing down the aisle.

In that moment, Sam knew without a doubt that Joseph was aiming for his brother. Without hesitation, he stepped out into the center of the aisle, his own gun flying up, his finger tightening on the trigger without even consciously thinking about it. He felt the gun kick back as he fired, two quick shots that echoed loudly in the open air of the warehouse. Joseph's body jerked as the bullets slammed into him, and then his gun slipped from his fingers and he toppled forward into a motionless heap.

Sam took a deep breath, trying to calm the wild thrumming of his heart. That had been close…too close. He couldn't even find in himself the remorse for killing another human. Not yet anyway…maybe not ever. After all, Joseph had been about to kill his brother, and in Sam's book, if there was ever _any_ acceptable reason to take a human life, _that_ was it.

But Sam didn't allow himself to think too deeply about it right now. His only thought was to get to Dean before anyone else could take a shot at him. With that in mind he began running down the row toward Joseph's body, hoping Dean was still near.

Sam was so intent on reaching his brother that he almost missed the flicker of motion as he charged past an intersecting row. Instinct alone saved him as a prickling sense of danger had him dodging suddenly to the left. He felt the whoosh of displaced air as something sliced through the spot he had just been standing. Jerking around, he started to raise his gun, but Eli was already moving, leaping toward Sam and slamming into him with enough force to send him crashing back into the wooden crates behind him, the impact knocking his gun loose and sending it clattering away.

Pain flared from his shoulder and side, intense enough to rob him of air, but despite that Sam was already fighting back. He reached up with his good arm just in time to stop the downward slice of the dagger held in Eli's clenched fist. The blade halted inches from Sam's face, close enough he could feel the unnatural cold radiating from the weapon. He grunted with the effort of keeping the blade away, knowing all it would take was a single nick and he'd be dead.

"Your mine, boy," Eli growled, his hate filled face leering at Sam from behind the dagger.

Sam didn't bother replying, merely kicked up with one foot, his leg connecting with Eli's outer thigh and sending the man stumbling back. He had a moment of relief as the blade was temporarily withdrawn, but a second later Eli was back, pressing forward relentlessly, keeping the dagger tucked close even as he used his body to keep Sam pinned back against the crates, with little room to maneuver.

_He knows what he's doing. _ Sam thought with a flare of panic. He was no novice to fighting, but Eli had over a hundred years' experience on Sam, and he was using it to his advantage.

Eli attacked again, and Sam barely managed to catch the man's wrist and turn the deadly sweep of the dagger away. His left arm ached and throbbed, limiting his movement on that side, and from the calculating look in his opponent's eyes, Eli must have realized he was playing wounded.

"Dean!" Sam cried out, hoping his brother was near…knowing that he was going to need help to win this battle.

"Big brother can't help you now," Eli growled, advancing once again. Sam blocked the attack for a third time, then tried to twist to the side and maneuver his way out of the box Eli had cornered him in. Eli anticipated his move, and stepped in to block his path. Sam struck out, landing a solid blow on the other man's jaw, knocking him back a step. Knowing he had to keep up the offensive, Sam pushed forward, landing two more quick blows to Eli's jaw and then another to the man's ribs.

Eli stumbled back, dazed, and Sam immediately went for the arm holding the knife, knowing he needed to disarm the man if he wanted any chance to survive this. His hand closed around his opponent's wrist, and Sam prepared to twist, hoping he could force Eli to drop the blade. The other was man was too quick, however, striking back at Sam with lightning speed, his fist connecting first with Sam's injured side, and then in an open fisted shove directly into Sam's left shoulder.

Sam lost his grip on Eli's wrist, stumbling back, a strangled cry torn from his lips. White light danced across his vision, and for a moment he struggled to find his balance amidst the throbbing pain from his injuries.

That moment was all it took for Eli to strike.

It was strange that even with the fierce pain radiating up and down his left side, he still somehow felt the sudden stinging sensation across the outside of his right wrist. It was a tiny cut, something he probably wouldn't have even acknowledged in any other fight. But this wasn't any other fight, and the dagger that had cut him wasn't an ordinary dagger, either.

His brain barely had time to register a flash of panic when he had the sudden unpleasant sensation of being doused with ice water, a blanket of cold settling over him, instantly numbing him and turning his limbs to jelly. His felt his legs giving out, and fought to remain standing, but his body betrayed him. He sank to his knees, and it took all his remaining strength to lift his head and look up at Eli.

The man stood over him, a look of triumph on his face, and Sam's gaze flickered down to his side, his eyes taking in the dagger still held tightly in Eli's fist…a dagger whose tip was now stained red with blood.

His blood.

_No_!

Even as he watched, the dagger began to glow softly, the light shimmering up the blade, through the handle, and then up Eli's arm. In less than a second the man's entire body was shimmering and glowing, his head thrown back as a look of ecstasy crossed his features.

But then Sam was unable to watch any more…unable to hold his body up any longer. He felt himself slump to the floor, the coldness that had robbed his limbs of strength increasing, freezing the breath in his lungs…his heart in his chest. Terror spiked through him, and he wanted desperately to fight back, to call for help, but he could no longer move, no longer speak. Even his vision was turning dark. From a distance he thought he heard someone calling his name, the voice desperate and afraid, but then sound was lost to him as well. With all sensation gone, the only thing left to him was his fear, and even that was slowly beginning to fade.

He never felt his eyes slide closed. Never felt the final slip of air pass his lips in a soft sigh. Never felt the last desperate thump of his heart.

Darkness and cold claimed him…and then there was nothing.

TBC

_Sorry for the evil little cliffy. Reviews may encourage me to post the next chapter sooner. Evil Grin_


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you so much for all of you who reviewed last chapter. Your awesome! As promised, here is the fifth and final installment…a few days early! And it is even extra long. Thanks everyone!_

**Chapter 5**

Dean was quickly reaching the end of his endurance.

He leaned back against a large crate and fought to catch his breath, to still the trembling in his legs that threatened to put him on his butt at any moment. To say he was feeling sick would be a vast understatement, and running up and down all these rows of boxes and crates certainly wasn't helping matters. Only fierce determination and a desperate need to find his brother was keeping him on his feet at all.

_Sam, you had better be okay._

A trickle of blood ran down his forehead, threatening to run into his eyes, and he impatiently swiped it away with the back of a shaky hand. The bullet that very easily could have ended his life had instead hit a stack of crates a few inches in front of him, sending out a spray of splinters, one of which had cut a stinging groove high across his forehead. The cut was bleeding persistently, but Dean knew it could have been far worse.

He still wasn't sure how he had made it out of the center of the warehouse alive. As soon as Joseph had arrived and effectively sent their plan to hell, Dean had been entirely focused on one thing; his brother.

Sam had been in the worst possible position, open and exposed in the center of the warehouse. Dean had seen the Connley's going for their guns and had known immediately that he wouldn't have enough time to put them all down, even if he _could_ shoot straight, which was doubtful with how badly he was shaking. So instead of carefully aiming, he had sent a wild spray of bullets in their direction, careful to avoid getting anywhere near Sam, hoping he could buy his brother a few seconds to get to safety.

His plan had worked…sort of. All three of the Connley's had dived for cover even as they returned fire. The result was an impressive display of firepower, but with no true aim to any of the bullets. Dean had waited only long enough to see Sam disappear behind a stack of crates, and then he had been forced to beat his own hasty retreat before he ended up the human version of Swiss cheese.

Now he was traversing the maze of boxes and crates in an effort to find his brother, his senses on high alert for any sound that would betray the presence of an enemy. He knew the Connley's were still out there, hunting them. Jeffram's shouted threat was proof of that. Dean would deal with them later…as soon as he found Sam and assured himself that his brother was okay.

He pushed away from the crate, peering both ways down the row before stumbling forward once more. He didn't get very far, however, before a sudden wave of dizziness struck, driving him to his knees. For a terrifying moment he thought he was about to have another attack, and his whole body tensed in preparation.

The debilitating pain never came. Still, the dizziness persisted, blurring his vision and twisting knots in his stomach. Blood dripped down off his brow and splattered to the cold cement floor, and he was forced to close his eyes as the red dot twisted and swirled in his vision.

_Get a grip, Dean,_ he told himself forcefully, breathing heavily through his nose in an effort to still the churning in his stomach and calm the pounding in his head. If he passed out now, he was as good as dead.

As if to affirm that thought, two shots rang out loudly into the silence of the warehouse, causing Dean to jerk back, his eyes flying open. He abruptly realized that he was kneeling out in the open, and he quickly scooted backwards until he felt the reassuring press of a wooden crate at his back. Blinking his eyes to clear away the lingering dizziness he peered down the aisle, his heart rate picking up speed as he saw the motionless form slumped at the end of the row. Panic gripped him for a moment before he realized the body was too short and thick to be his brother.

_Sam! _

His brother was near…had probably just saved his life. Dean had to fight down the urge to call out, not wanting to give away their position to the remaining Connley's.

With no time to give in to weakness, he grabbed the crate behind him and used it to lever himself to his feet. He swayed for a moment before he was able to find his balance, and then he stumbled forward, one hand dragging down the boxes and crates, using them to help support him.

He was only about half-way down the row when the muted sound of a scuffle drifted to him from somewhere nearby. He paused cautiously, listening intently. A moment later he heard his name cried out in his brother's unmistakable voice, an edge of desperation to the call. All weakness instantly forgotten, Dean pushed away from the support of the crates and raced full speed down the aisle.

He reached the end of the row, barely sparing a glance at Joseph's body before stepping over him and turning down the adjoining aisle, his eyes desperately scanning for any trace of his brother.

What he saw turned the blood to ice in his veins.

Eli stood several yards away in the center of the aisle, a strange glow surrounding his body, his head tilted back, his arms held out to either side of him. Dean's gaze immediately went to the glowing dagger clenched in the man's fist, then flew to the body slumped on the ground at Eli's feet.

_NO!_

"SAM!"

The cry tore from his lungs, desperate and afraid. His world twisted sideways, but somehow he managed to stay on his feet, managed to stumble forward. His heart was pounding so fast he thought for sure it would burst free of his chest.

Completely oblivious to the still glowing form of Eli, Dean crashed to his knees beside Sam, his gun dropping from nerveless fingers as he reached out and pulled his brother up into his arms. Sam's eyes were closed, his face deathly pale.

"Sam? Sammy!" he cried, his voice sounding alien and strange to his own ears. He couldn't remember ever sounding this terrified.

The body in his arms was completely limp, …and cold, so very cold. Dean found he couldn't breathe as his fingers fumbled against Sam's neck, searching desperately for a pulse, for the throb of life that would prove his brother was still alive…was still with him.

There was nothing.

"No," Dean moaned, clutching Sam to him tighter, his brother's head rolling limply across his shoulder, his chest completely still underneath Dean's desperate grip.

He had been a hunter for too long…had seen death too many times not to recognize it when he saw it. Still, his heart screamed out in denial, refusing to accept what his mind already knew to be true.

A cruel chuckle sounded from above him, and Dean looked up to see Eli grinning down at him. The glow that had surrounded the man moments earlier was mostly gone, leaving behind only a faint shimmer and an unnatural light to his eyes.

"Your brother's life force was delicious," Eli stated maliciously, obscenely licking his lips as though he had just enjoyed a favorite meal.

Dean saw red.

The fury that swept through him washed away all thought, all reason, rage fuelling his body with unexpected strength. He was moving before Eli even realized it, striking out like a coiled snake. Sam's body fell from his grip as he launched himself forward, wrapping his arms around Eli's knees and bringing the other man down…hard.

Eli's features flashed with momentary surprise, and even as he fell he tried to slash out at Dean with the dagger. Dean knocked the blow away with disdainful ease. The air was knocked out of the man when he hit the ground, and Dean didn't give him a chance to recover. He was on top of him in the blink of an eye, straddling his waist and raining blows down on his face with brutal intensity. He didn't even feel the sting of his knuckles splitting with the force of his hits. All he cared about was turning Eli's face into a bloody mess, and he was well on his way to achieving that.

From the corner of his eye he saw Eli's hand slowly rise, still clutching the dagger, making one last attempt to save himself. With a growl of pure hatred, Dean reached out and grabbed the man's wrist, just below the dagger. Then with a simple shove, he drove Eli's wrist forward. Eli was still clutching the dagger desperately when its blood stained tip drove into the soft flesh of his throat, sending a spray of crimson blood over his face and chest. He tried to scream, but the only sound that escaped was a gurgling cry.

Teeth clenched, Dean glared down at the man beneath him, then quickly lurched back as the dagger suddenly flared with white hot light. The same glow that had surrounded Eli earlier returned, but this time instead of embracing him gently, it pulsed and throbbed. Eli let out another gurgling cry, his body arching beneath the white light.

Dean scrambled away, instinctively knowing he didn't want to be caught in the light that currently seemed to be eating away at Eli's body. The man was convulsing and writhing, and Dean was pretty sure he would have been screaming if he could.

Another minute passed, and then, just as suddenly as it had come, the light flared a final time and disappeared, leaving what was left of Eli's body lying still and bloody in the center of the aisle.

"What have you done?"

The hoarse question sounded from somewhere to his right, and Dean slowly lifted his head to glance in that direction. Jeffram stood several paces away, his right pant leg soaked with blood, his eyes locked on Eli's body, gun held loosely in one hand.

"What have you done?" he repeated a second time, taking a limping step forward, his gaze still locked on the body of his son.

Dean didn't bother to answer him, suddenly too weary. His own eyes shifted to the side where Sam's body still lay, curled onto his side where Dean had dropped him. All the strength his rage had lent him disappeared in a flash, replaced by a sense of numbness. If he wasn't already sitting, he would have fallen.

"I'm going to kill you!"

He looked up at the growled threat, blinking at the man now towering over him. Jeffram had his gun raised now, pointed down at Dean's head. The look on his face was one of pure hatred and rage.

Dean knew he should feel _something_ at the imminent approach of death, but it was almost as though his mind had shut down, refusing any thought or feeling. All he knew was that his brother was dead and his life as he knew it was over. Death seemed somehow an appropriate ending to it all.

Jeffram bared his teeth, a flicker of confusion briefly crossing his face. He obviously had been expecting Dean to show fear, perhaps even beg for his life. He wasn't quite sure what to make of Dean's obvious indifference.

"Any last words?" Jeffram growled.

_I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry. _

Dean merely stared up at the man and remained silent, wishing Jeffram would just get on with it. He could feel the numbness that was holding his pain and grief at bay slowly fading, and he wanted this over before it could vanish completely.

Jeffram sneered down at him. "Fine, have it your way," he spat, the barrel of his gun steadying even as his finger tightened on the trigger.

Dean closed his eyes, not even flinching as the sound of the shot echoed loudly through the warehouse. He was a little surprised that he felt no pain, but then perhaps Jeffram's shot had been clean enough that it had killed him instantly. Of course, that didn't explain why he could still feel the cold cement floor beneath his knees, still feel the slow trickle of blood down his forehead or the aching pain of abused and sore muscles.

He opened his eyes, frowning in confusion. Jeffram still stood over him, but a look of surprise was pasted across his features. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but the only thing that came out was a dribble of bright red blood. Then, almost in slow motion, his legs buckle, as though he was a marionette with his strings suddenly cut. He collapsed to the ground in a heap, his gun clattering off the cement floor and sliding away.

Dean stared down at him in surprise, then slowly looked up.

Bobby Singer was standing twenty feet away down the aisle, his gun still raised, his face cast in shadow by the brim of his hat. Dean watched as Bobby lowered the gun, his stance loosening.

"You okay, son?" Bobby called out, slowly walking forward.

Dean could only blink at him, still too caught up in surprise at the sudden turn of events. He saw Bobby's gaze rake over him appraisingly before skipping to the side and coming to rest on Sam. Bobby stopped walking, his eyes widening slightly.

"Sam…" he whispered hoarsely.

That single word broke through Dean's shock. He ripped his gaze away from Bobby and turned back to his brother, and then he was moving, sliding across to Sam's body, lifting his brother up into his arms once again.

Sam didn't seem as cold as he'd been the first time Dean had touched him, but he was still icy to the touch. Dean pulled his brother up until Sam's limp head rested on his chest, right over his heart. He bowed his head, breathing in the familiar scent that was his brother, feeling some of Sam's hair tickling his cheek. The numbness that had encased him was quickly thawing, and Dean gripped his brother tighter, knowing he was dangerously close to shattering.

He sensed Bobby moving up behind him, heard the soft sigh the older man breathed out, the sound filled with sadness and regret. Then Bobby was gripping his shoulder, his hand helping to ground Dean in the growing tidal wave of grief building in his chest.

"I was too late, Bobby," he choked out, gripping Sam against him so tightly that his muscles began to tremble. "Eli cut him. I didn't get to him in time. I couldn't save him."

Bobby didn't answer, merely squeezed his shoulder in a silent show of support.

And in that moment, Dean wished that Bobby hadn't save him…that he hadn't stopped Jeffram from shooting him. In that moment…as the grief crested and slammed into him full force…he wished he was dead.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Everything was dark and cold.

The blackness that surrounded him was so absolute that he couldn't even see his hand in front of his face. Not that he was certain he even _had_ a hand. Everything felt disjointed and hazy, as though he were floating in air with nothing but the cold and dark to keep him company. He had no idea how he had come to be in this place, nor how long he had been here…floating. All he knew was that he suddenly desperately wanted out, wanted to escape from the cold and suffocating blackness that surrounded him.

That was why he welcomed the first tendrils of warmth that wrapped around him with excitement and anticipation. He didn't know what the warmth meant, or where it was coming from, he only knew that it was something different…something more, and he clung to it like a drowning man clinging to a raft.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the warmth increased, and with it, the blackness surrounding him began to lesson. It was nothing drastic. He still couldn't actually see anything, but in some way, the darkness was losing its power, the black that surrounded him fading to more of a dark gray.

He was suddenly greedy for more. He tried to move, but nothing happened. He felt a moment of frustration, but was quickly distracted by a small thump against the inside of his chest. It was the first sensation he could remember feeling, and he honed in on it, focused intently until the sensation repeated itself again…and then again.

Another sensation joined the first then; the smooth slide of air into his mouth and down into his lungs. Again, the amount was so small as to be almost unnoticeable, but he clung to the sensation as desperately as he did to the gentle thump in his chest. He somehow knew both signaled something important…something vital.

As if the first two sensations had broken through some sort of barrier, other feelings began to return to him, soft and muted at first, but growing slowly stronger. He became aware of a tingling sensation throughout his body, much like the feeling of blood returning to a limb that had fallen asleep. It wasn't the most pleasant sensation, but he didn't fight it. At least it was better than the cold and the dark.

As his body awoke, he became aware of the fact that he wasn't floating as he had first thought, but actually lying, his upper body reclining against something hard but warm. A distant thrum echoed in his head, different from the weak beat in his own chest, stronger and somehow comforting. He still couldn't move, but that fact no longer bothered him as much. If it weren't for the lingering cold and darkness, he might even have felt content.

Then he heard a voice, distant and indecipherable, and yet somehow still achingly familiar. The sound of the voice brought with it a stronger wave of warmth, and he struggled toward it, needing more…wanting to understand.

The voice sounded again, and this time he caught something of what it said. Just a single word…a name…"Sam"…but with that name came a sudden sense of awareness. The warmth flared again, driving back the cold, and in its wake all sensation seemed to grow stronger; the fluttering of his heart, the whisper of breath in his lungs, the tingling in his limbs…and now, the warm feeling of arms gripped tightly around him, holding him firmly.

_Dean_

The name echoed around in the darkness with him, and he suddenly knew in whose arms he lay. He could feel the soft fabric of his brother's shirt against his cheek, and beneath that, the steady thud of Dean's heart. He would have frowned in confusion if his body had allowed even that small amount of movement. He had no idea why he was lying in Dean's arms, but he guessed it had something to do with the dark and the cold. His brother's warmth was working as a barrier of sorts against the lingering chill, and Sam welcomed that small comfort, found himself hoping Dean wouldn't let go anytime soon.

"Come on, son. We need to get out of here. Someone may have heard the shots and called the police."

Sam heard and understood every word spoken this time…recognized Bobby Singer's rough growl, heard the weary grief buried deep in the older man's voice.

"What does it matter," Dean answered dully, and though the sound of his brother's voice continued to bring warmth to fight off the cold in his limbs, Sam found himself mentally shivering at the lifeless tone. "Sam is _dead_, Bobby."

Sam's newfound breath caught suddenly in his chest at Dean's declaration, realization settling over him.

Dean thought he was dead.

_No! No, Dean. I'm not dead…I'm right here. _

He tried to open his eyes, tried to move, but his body still wasn't responding to his mind's commands. He couldn't even open his mouth…couldn't speak…couldn't so much as twitch. Dread settled over him, and for a moment he wondered if Dean was right. Maybe he _was_ dead.

Almost in direct rebuttal to that thought, he felt his heart give another gentle thump against the inside of his chest, stronger this time, offering proof that he wasn't dead but very much alive. He just had to figure out a way to let his brother know that.

"Look, Dean, I know this is hard…" Bobby's voice broke, and Sam heard him clear his throat roughly before continuing. "We'll deal with all this after we get out of here, alright. Did you get the antidote?"

At the mention of antidote, Sam felt his newly beating heart pick up pace slightly. Until that moment he had forgotten where he was or what they were doing there. Now his memory returned in force; Dean being poisoned, finding the dagger in the old church, meeting at the warehouse to make the exchange, his fight with Eli…"

If Sam had had control over his lungs, he would have gasped.

Eli had cut him. He could remember that much clearly. Which meant, he really _should_ be dead. But he wasn't. He was certain of that now. He was still cold and weak…so very weak, but he wasn't dead, though he had no idea how that was even possible.

"Dean? The antidote?" Bobby pressed, bringing Sam's mind back to the conversation taking place above him. He could almost feel the weight of the glass vial tucked in the inside pocket of his coat, resting directly above his softly beating heart.

"It doesn't matter," Dean muttered. "Nothing matters now."

Hot fury swept through Sam at his brother's softly spoken words, driving away the last remnants of cold from his limbs. What the hell was Dean thinking?! Of course it mattered. It mattered a lot! His brother would _die_ without that antidote!

His indignation was such that he finally felt his body respond to him, shifting ever so slightly in Dean's hold, a frustrated sigh slipping out past his cold lips.

Dean's response was instant. Sam felt his brother stiffen against him, a breathless gasp sounding near his ear. Then he was being rolled over onto his back, still clutched in Dean's arms, head rolling limply until it was resting against his brother's shoulder. He felt Dean's fingers come to rest against the side of his neck, his brother's fingers shaking so badly he wondered how Dean thought to find a pulse.

"Dean?" The question in Bobby's voice was obvious.

Dean didn't answer, his fingers still pressed tightly against the artery in Sam's neck. Sam couldn't be sure, but he thought his brother was holding his breath. A moment later he felt the thrum of his heart…felt it both in his chest and against the point in his neck were his brother's fingers were currently pressed. Dean reacted to the pulse as though burned, gasping and jerking his fingers away.

"Sammy?" His name was a breathless whisper, full of desperate hope.

Sam responded in the only way he could, forcing out another small breath of air from between numb lips.

He felt Dean's hand come to rest gently against his cheek, something suspiciously like a relieved sob sounding directly above him.

"Oh thank God! Bobby, he's alive. Sam's alive!"

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSs

At first, Bobby thought that Dean was having some sort of break-down…that his grief was simply too great to bear and so he was imagining life where there was none.

He stared down at the young man he loved as a son, pity and grief sitting heavy on his shoulders. What was one supposed to do when half of who they were was suddenly stripped away? He couldn't blame Dean for his wishful thinking. And yet sooner or later the boy would need to find a way to come to grips with his loss. If he couldn't, Bobby was worried he would lose both of them.

"Dean…" Bobby began, but then Dean looked up at him, his expression such a mixture of joy and relief that Bobby didn't have the heart to continue. Instead, he let out a small sigh and crouched down next to Dean, his hand reaching out to rest lightly on Sam's chest.

He nearly fell over in surprise when he felt the gentle rise and fall of the boy's chest beneath his fingers. Sam's breathing was shallow…very shallow, but it was definitely present…and growing stronger with every passing moment.

"I don't believe it…" he whispered, his eyes meeting Dean's once more over Sam's prone form, his own excitement and relief mirrored back at him from the green orbs. "How…?

Dean was shaking his head. "I don't know, Bobby." His voice was choked with emotion. "Eli cut him with the knife. He was dead when I reached him, I know he was!"

Bobby nodded, not doubting Dean's assessment for a moment. The hunter was too experienced not to recognize death when he saw it. Still, that didn't explain how Sam was now alive.

"Hey, buddy," Dean called softly, tapping the side of Sam's face gently. "Hey, it's time to wake up now. Please, Sammy, open your eyes for me, kiddo."

Bobby knew that if any part of Sam was aware, he would be unable to deny the desperate plea in his brother's voice. Sure enough, Sam twitched slightly in Dean's arms, his breathing picking up pace, his lashes fluttering. A moment later, his lids slowly slid open, hazel eyes peering up at them blearily.

"Hey Sammy," Dean greeted, his voice heavy with emotion.

Sam's throat worked, his lips twitching in an obvious effort to reply, but no sound came out.

"Easy," Dean soothed, running a hand over the side of Sam's head. "You're okay, Sammy, I promise. I've got you. Just take it easy."

Sam blinked his eyes slowly, the only response he was apparently able to give. The hand that lay against Dean's chest twitched slightly, Sam's fingers grasping weakly at his brother's shirt. A single tear slipped from the corner of one eye, cutting a path down his temple and into his hair.

"Take it easy," Dean repeated, wiping away the trail of moisture the tear left with a gentle hand. Then he looked up at Bobby, the helpless expression back on his face. "I think he's in pain, Bobby."

Bobby nodded, moving his hand from Sam's chest, gently pulling back the young man's jacket, searching for any signs of injury. He didn't have to look far. Sam's t-shirt on his left side was soaked with blood, the soggy material sticking to the young man's side. Bobby gently peeled the saturated material away, wincing when it stuck slightly. Sam made a small sound in the back of his throat, but otherwise didn't move, not even so much as a flinch, which had Bobby slightly worried.

He carefully pushed the shirt aside, getting a clear view of the bloody groove cutting a jagged path through the flesh on Sam's side, just below his ribs. The wound looked painful and was slowly oozing blood, but Bobby knew there was little risk Sam would bleed out anytime soon. It could have been a lot worse.

"Bobby?" Dean's voice was filled with worry. From his position the older boy wasn't able to see the wound, only the blood stained shirt.

"Looks like a bullet winged him," Bobby answered gruffly, gently lowering Sam's t-shirt back down. "He's had worse, though. We can get him patched up once we get safely away from here." He felt fairly certain that if someone had heard the gunshots and called the police they would have already been here by now, but there was no point in pushing their luck.

Dean nodded, then turned his attention back to Sam. "You ready to get out of here, bro?"

Sam gave the barest hint of a nod, a small sound bubbling in the back of his throat.

"First things first," Bobby interjected, reaching out and grabbing Dean's arm before he could start trying to lift Sam. "We need to find that antidote."

Dean might have been able to forget that he was living against the clock, but Bobby wasn't about to. They had almost lost Sam, which had been hard enough, but the thought that Dean might be next was damn near killing him.

Dean looked startled for a moment, then he gave a sheepish shrug. "Last I knew, Sam had it," he admitted, glancing down at his brother.

Sam made another small sound a lot like a sigh.

Dean began patting around in Sam's jacket, eventually finding the glass vial in an interior pocket. "Jackpot. Now can we get out of here?" he asked, attempting to slip the vial into his own coat pocket.

"Drink it first," Bobby ordered, stopping Dean by reaching out and grabbing his arm.

Dean started to argue. "Bobby, we can do this later, after we get out of here. Sam needs… "

"Sam needs you to drink the damn potion!" he interrupted, his tone hard. "Now!"

As if to punctuate his statement Sam let out a very distinct "hmph" from his position in Dean's arms, going so far as to smack the back of his hand against Dean's chest. Granted, it was the weakest smack in the history of all mankind, but it still managed to get the point across.

"Alright, alright…" Dean grumbled, but Bobby didn't miss the gentle smile he shot down at his brother. He popped the top from the vial, then held it up in a mock toast. "Here's to hoping the remedy tastes better than the poison." Then he tipped the vial to his lips and drained it in one swallow. His features immediately twisted in disgust and he gagged slightly, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nope…not so much."

"How do you feel?" Bobby couldn't help but ask.

"You mean besides my sudden desire to throw up the supper I didn't have?" Dean asked, then shrugged. "I don't know yet, Bobby. It's not like I can exactly tell whether it's working or not. I guess we'll find out in a couple of hours."

"Yeah," Bobby grunted, not at all thrilled with the prospect, but not really wanting to dwell on what they would do if the antidote ended up _not_ working. "Let's grab the dagger and get the hell out of here."

"Over there," Dean thrust out his chin in the direction of Eli's body.

Bobby rose and walked over to the corpse. The dagger's blade was buried at least halfway into the man's neck, Eli's fist still closed tightly over the handle. Grimacing in disgust, Bobby reached down and pried the dead man's fingers away, then grasped the hilt to pull the blade free. Sudden realization had him pausing, and he let out a startled grunt. "Huh."

"What is it," Dean asked. He still had made no effort to move from his spot on the floor, his brother held tightly against him.

"The dagger," Bobby said slowly, slipping the blade free from Eli's neck and holding it up for closer inspection. "It's not cold anymore. Not at all. It feels…well, it feels just like any other knife."

Dean arched an eyebrow in surprise, staring at the dagger held in Bobby's hand. "You sure?" he asked doubtfully.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure," he growled, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a handkerchief, gingerly wrapping the bloody blade in it. "I think maybe the blade's somehow lost its power," he mused, turning around to glance at the boys, wondering if whatever had happened to the dagger was responsible for Sam's miraculous recovery.

"Yeah, well, we can figure that all out later," Dean grunted, looking down and shifting his brother lightly in his arms. "Let's get Sammy out of here first. I think my legs are starting to fall asleep."

Bobby nodded, carefully slipping the knife into his pocket and then moving over to help Dean. The time for answers would come later. Right now they just needed to get out of there.

It turned out to be no easy task getting Sam out to the car, even with both of them working together and Sam trying to help as he could…which wasn't much. In the end Bobby ended up doing most of the work, because Dean was barely able to carry his _own_ weight, let alone his brother's. He was pale and shaky, the blood on his face standing out in stark contrast to the whiteness of his skin. Once they were up and moving, he looked two steps away from passing out, and Bobby wondered if he was going to have to get Sam to the car on his own and then come back for the older boy. But Dean had always been tougher than he looked, and with what had to be a monumental effort of will, he managed to not only walk out on his own, but also helped support Sam.

Bobby couldn't help but feel extremely proud of both boys. He had never met anyone before with as much strength and courage as these two men. They had been through so much…suffered so much, and yet when all was said and done, they continued to fight their way forward when lesser men would have long since given up. He wondered if John had ever fully realized just how special his boys were.

As they moved out of the warehouse, Bobby sent a cautious glance up and down the street, half expecting an army of police cruisers to appear at any moment and surround them. But the street remained deserted, the last of the evening light slipping away to shroud everything in darkness.

Bobby propped Sam's limp form against the side of the car long enough to reach down and yank the back door open, then grunted with effort as he slowly started lowering the boy down to the seat. Dean had moved around the car and slipped in the other side, reaching out to help guide Sam back into the car, pulling his brother's sagging body back against him. Bobby lifted Sam's legs into the car, then straightened, shutting the door and heading around the car for the driver's side.

Sinking into the front seat, he pulled out the keys he'd grabbed from Sam's jacket pocket minutes earlier and twisted them in the ignition, the car coming to life around him with a throaty growl. He cast a quick glance in the rearview mirror as he reached for the gearshift. Dean was pressed against the right door, Sam pulled back against his chest in much the same position they'd been inside the warehouse. Sam's head rested on Dean's shoulder, and Dean was leaning forward, murmuring something in his brother's ear, his words too soft for Bobby to make out over the roar of the Impala's engine.

Bobby turned his gaze back forward.

This whole evening hadn't turned out as expected, but then, things rarely did for them. Still, they were all alive, which was more than could be said for the Connley's. He wasn't quite ready to chalk this one up as a win…not until he knew Dean was truly out of the woods…but he was only too aware of how close things had come to ending very differently for them.

Releasing a small sigh, Bobby shifted the Impala into gear and pressed the gas, happy to leave the warehouse behind them.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSss

The motel Bobby took them to was just like any of the thousands of others Dean had stayed at in his lifetime; threadbare carpet, paper thin bedspreads, leaky faucet, and a color scheme that could make you go blind.

For Dean, it was just like coming home, and that had nothing to do with the room and everything to do with the fact that he still had a brother to share the room with. It didn't matter that Sam was still as weak as a newborn kitten and had to be carried inside. It didn't matter that Dean felt only slightly stronger, like a stiff wind would be able to knock him over. They were alive and they were together, and that was all that mattered in his book.

After getting Sam settled on the bed farthest from the door, Bobby set to work bringing in their bags from the car. Dean tried to help, but the older hunter shot him a glare and told him to sit down before he fell down. Dean was too tired to argue.

He slipped down on the bed next to his brother, his back against the headboard, Sam's head resting near his thigh. He reached out and laid a hand on Sam's chest, reassured by the feel of his brother's steady breathing.

_You're such a girl,_ he mockingly berated himself, but he kept his hand on Sam's chest anyway.

"D'n?" Sam's voice was soft and weak, but to Dean it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

He smiled down at his brother, his fingers tightening briefly in the fabric of Sam's shirt. "Ah, so you're getting your voice back, eh?"

"Yeah," Sam whispered, his eyes blinking slowly closed and then flying open once again, his exhaustion evident.

"Just relax, Sammy," Dean murmured. "Try to get some sleep, okay."

Sam shook his head minutely. "Can't," he muttered, his slightly glassy eyes locking on Dean.

"Sure you can," Dean argued. "You're safe now, I promise. I got you."

"…know…" Sam slurred.

"Then what's the problem?"

Sam didn't answer, merely rolled his eyes to the side. It took a moment before Dean realized his brother was staring at the clock on the bedside table. Comprehension dawned. Sam wasn't going to relax until he knew that Dean was safe…that the antidote had indeed worked and Dean wasn't still on death row.

Dean slowly nodded, using the hand that wasn't currently resting on Sam's chest to smooth away a stray lock of hair that had fallen down over his brother's forehead._ Yeah, definitely a girl._ "Okay," he murmured softly. "We'll wait together."

Sam's hand twitched slightly against the side of his leg, and he gave Dean a weak smile.

Bobby re-entered the room carrying several duffels, including the small green one that housed their medical supplies. He dropped the duffel on the far side of the bed, caught Dean's gaze briefly, then moved into the bathroom to wash his hands.

"We're going to get you patched up, Sammy," Dean told his brother, giving Sam's chest a reassuring pat as Bobby moved back into the room and knelt next to the bed. "Just try to relax."

Dean watched as Bobbly flipped Sam's jacket aside and then lifted the bloody material of his shirt. He got his first glimpse at the wound on Sam's side, and he flinched slightly.

"I'm going to have to clean it out and then put a few stitches in," Bobby informed him, already reaching for the bottle of alcohol.

Dean nodded, then called his brother's name to get Sam's attention on him. "Hey, you remember that lame play you forced me to watch the other day?"

Sam grunted, rolling his eyes up to meet Dean's gaze. "…liked it…" he muttered, staring at Dean challengingly, as though daring him to deny he had enjoyed the play.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean dismissed. "Though I have to admit, the lead chick was pretty hot. Especially that scene where she was wearing that little white dress…" Dean gave a mock shiver of delight.

Sam rolled his eyes, then suddenly flinched, hissing in pain as Bobby began working on cleaning out the cut.

"So anyway," Dean continued hurriedly. "The whole time I was watching that play I kept remembering this silly little skit your class put on when you were in 1st grade. Do you remember it?"

Sam frowned, shaking his head minutely.

"It was Halloween, and your teacher was a huge Michael Jackson fan. She taught you all this funky little dance to the song _Thriller_. It was actually pretty adorable."

Sam gave a small huff, the edges of a smile playing at his lips even as sweat popped out on his brow and his eyes tightened with suppressed pain.

"So there you all were, a bunch of six and seven year olds, dancing around and growling," Dean continued, smoothing the hand on Sam's chest in soothing little circles. "And then you spotted me in the crowd and decided to spice things up by adding some new moves all on your own. Ah, man, how I wished I had a camcorder. You had the whole crowd almost in tears they were laughing so hard."

Sam let out a small laugh, the pain in his eyes fading slightly as he stared up at Dean.

"Anyway, a week later we were driving in the car and that song came on the radio. Dad thought I had lost it because I couldn't stop laughing, and the whole time you were sitting in the back with your hands up, curled like claws, growling. Dad pulled over and checked us both for possession right then and there."

Dean was chuckling by the time he finished the story, and Sam's eyes were alight with mirth. "Always…liked…that song," he admitted.

"Yeah, me too," Dean agreed softly, glancing over to see Bobby finishing the final stitch and snipping the thread with a pair of scissors. Then he pulled out a large white bandage from the bag and began securing it gently over the cut.

"Sammy," Dean said, turning instantly serious. "Is there anywhere else that hurts?"

Sam gave a tiny shrug. "Left shoulder," he whispered. "Just…bruised… I think."

Dean glanced at Bobby, and the older man nodded, hiking Sam's shirt up as far as he could and peering down at the injured limb. He reached out and prodded the shoulder gently, eliciting a small gasp from Sam. Finally he lowered the shirt.

"I think Sam's right…it's just bruised. If it doesn't start feeling better in a couple of days we can take him in somewhere for an x-ray."

Dean nodded, then glanced down at Sam. "Anywhere else?"

Sam shook his head, his movements again so slight as to be almost non-existent. His brother's continued paralysis was beginning to worry Dean, but he told himself that all Sam needed was a little rest and a chance to recover. After all, Sam had been dead not all that long ago. Apparently that wasn't something you just popped back from.

"Let me take a look at that cut."

Dean glanced up, blinking at Bobby fuzzily. He couldn't remember the older man circling the bed to stand over him.

Bobby shook his head, reaching out to grab Dean's chin, twisting it first one way and then the other as he inspected the cut on Dean's forehead.

"It looks like its stopped bleeding," he finally declared, releasing Dean's chin. "Probably won't need stitches, though it wouldn't hurt to clean it up a bit."

"In a while," Dean murmured. In order to clean the cut he would have to get up, and now that he was down, he didn't think that was going to be a possibility anytime soon.

Bobby didn't press the issue, moving away to clean up and repack the medical bag.

"How about some TV to help pass the time?" Dean asked, reaching for the remote on the bed-stand and pointing it toward the ancient looking television. Unsurprisingly, the selection of available channels was shorter than the list of Sam's past girlfriends. He finally settled on a re-run of CSI, turning to glance at the clock as he leaned back against the headboard. It was 7:45, which meant if another pain attack was coming, it would be hitting at any time. He waited for the fear and tension to grip him as it had earlier, but it never came. Perhaps he was simply too tired. Or maybe he was still riding the high of his brother's miraculous return to life. Whatever it was, he couldn't bring himself to worry too much over the looming deadline.

Sam, on the other hand, wasn't even pretending to watch the TV, his gaze shifting constantly back and forth between the clock on the stand and Dean. Dean did his best to ignore him, knowing there was nothing he could say or do to ease Sam's worry.

A half hour passed.

Then an hour.

Nothing. No pain attack. Only the lingering ache of abused muscles and an exhaustion that was getting harder and harder to ignore.

The antidote had worked.

Dean felt Sam relax beside him, his eyes blinking heavily, his expression one of relief. Dean felt the same relief flow through him. It was finally over.

He watched as Sam succumbed to his body's demand for rest, his eyes fluttering closed, a long sigh slipping from between his lips. Dean realized his hand was still resting on his brother's chest, but he made no effort to remove it.

"Why don't you try and get some sleep." Bobby suggested, rising from where he had been sitting on the other bed and moving over to stand beside Dean. "You look exhausted."

Dean slowly shook his head, even that small movement taking far more effort than it should have. "What about the dagger, Bobby?" he asked. "We still haven't figured out what happened…why Sam's still alive."

Bobby nodded. "I know, but those questions will still be waiting for us in the morning. Get some sleep now, Dean. You need to get your strength back. You take the other bed. I'll stay up and keep watch on Sam."

Dean grunted. "I'm good here, Bobby," he argued, not wanting to admit that he wasn't yet ready to move away from Sam. He knew it was foolish, but he was unable to shake the niggling fear that if he left his brother, even for a moment, Sam would be taken from him again.

Bobby seemed to understand, because he didn't push the issue. He merely grabbed a couple of pillows off the other bed and helped stack them behind Dean, cushioning his back from the hard headboard. Dean sank back into the soft pillows, his eyes already slipping closed as his exhaustion pulled him under.

Just before he slipped into sleep he could have sworn he felt the gentle slide of fingers across the side of his head, and his father's soft voice telling him to get some rest.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Sam woke to the enticing smell of coffee wafting throughout the room.

He didn't immediately open his eyes, content to drift lazily in that warm realm halfway between sleep and wakefulness. His mind picked up the soft sounds of someone moving around the room, but he wasn't alarmed. He instinctively knew it was his brother, the small sounds as familiar to him as the back of his hand.

Then Dean groaned, and Sam's eyes popped open as fast as if someone had poked him. His eyes immediately sought out his brother, catching Dean just as he was lowering himself stiffly into one of the chairs at the table, a Styrofoam cup of coffee held in one hand.

Sam couldn't help but wince at the sight of his brother. Dean looked like someone who had wandered from the set of a horror movie. His clothes were wrinkled and stained with blood, with more blood dried across his forehead and down one side of his face. Dark smudges beneath his eyes accentuated his still too pale face, and the stubble growing along his jaw gave him a somewhat sinister look.

Sensing his gaze, Dean turned to look at him, smiling in greeting when he saw Sam was awake. "Morning, princess," he greeted, lifting his coffee cup and taking a deep swallow. "Bout time you woke up."

Sam rolled his head to the side so he could see the clock on the nightstand, startled to find it was after ten o'clock in the morning. He couldn't remember waking up a single time in the night…which for him was extremely rare. If that was the case, he'd just had his best night of sleep since…well, since before he'd left Stanford.

"How ya feeling?" Dean asked, the playfulness gone from his voice, his tone all seriousness.

Sam ran a quick mental diagnostic on his body. He was able to move around slightly, which was a definite improvement over last night, and his tongue no longer felt like a lead ball in his mouth, which hopefully meant coherent conversation was now possible. Still, his limbs felt heavy and weighted down, and he was becoming more and more aware of a growing ache from his shoulder and side.

Dean was still watching him, obviously waiting for an answer, and Sam knew the normal "I'm fine" wasn't going to cut it this time.

"I'm still a little weak," he admitted with a small shrug. He attempted to push himself up on his right elbow, but even that task was too much for his weakened body, and he collapsed back down to the bed with a frustrated curse.

Instantly Dean was there, reaching out and grabbing Sam's good shoulder and bodily hauling him up, then pilling several pillows behind him to help hold him upright.

"Thanks," Sam muttered, embarrassed that his brother had to help him even sit up, but grateful to be upright nonetheless.

"Just take it easy, Sam," Dean encouraged. "Give it some time…your strength will return. You've been through a lot."

Dean's tone was light, but there was a dark undercurrent to it as well, and when Sam glanced up at him, he saw the haunted look in his brother's eyes. He could relate only too well. Dean hadn't actually died on him, but Sam had spent two days watching his brother suffer and worrying that he was going to end up losing him. And even now, when he was certain that Dean was going to be okay, he couldn't shake the lingering fear.

"So, did you and Bobby figure out what happened?" he asked softly, pulling his mind away from the dark 'what ifs' that were playing on the edge of his thoughts.

Dean shook his head. "Nah. I just woke up myself," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "Bobby went out to grab us some breakfast." Dean reached down and rubbed his belly, and Sam could swear he heard his brother's stomach growl. Sam was relieved to know Dean had his appetite back. After two days of basically not eating, he knew some food would go a long way in helping his brother regain some of his strength.

Dean suddenly turned away from the bed and disappeared into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a paper cup full of water and a couple of pain pills. Sam was grateful. His whole left side was throbbing, and he had a growing headache as well. He tried to reach up to take the cup from Dean, but his arms still weren't cooperating very well, and if it weren't for his brother's quick reflexes, he would have ended up taking an impromptu bath.

"Let me," Dean said softly, motioning for Sam to open his mouth.

Feeling like a two year old, Sam reluctantly complied. Dean popped the pills into his mouth and then lifted the cup to his lips. Sam drank the cup dry before sinking back into the pillows with a sigh. His body's continued refusal to do his bidding was beginning to really grate on his nerves.

Dean seemed to understand his frustration. "We'll give the pills a chance to take effect and then we can try to get you up and moving around a little," he suggested. "See if we can't get your muscles to wake up a bit."

Sam nodded, hoping his brother was right. There was also the fact that now that his body was starting to wake up, there were certain personal issues he was going to need to take care of before too much longer. He definitely was _not_ looking forward to that!

Dean returned to the table and his coffee, and Sam couldn't help but notice his brother was still moving somewhat stiffly. He'd seen first-hand the harsh physical toll the pain attacks had had on his brother, and even though they were over, Dean was obviously still feeling their effects.

"You look like crap, man," he observed, earning himself a disbelieving stare from the table.

"Not possible," his brother returned dismissively. "You, on the other hand, _always_ look like crap, but you've taken it to a whole new low."

Sam let out a small huff. "Yeah, I guess we make quite the pair then."

"Always," Dean answered with a smile.

Just then the door opened and Bobby trudged in, arms laden with several bags of food. He kicked the door shut behind him and walked over to the table, depositing the bags on its surface. "Glad to see you awake, Sam," he said by way of greeting. "How ya feeling?"

Sam smiled at the older man, lifting one hand in a weak wave. "Hey, Bobby. Better, thanks."

Dean reached for one of the bags of food, but Bobby smacked his hand away. "Not so fast," he growled. "You're not getting a single bite until you go and wash your face. I ain't eating breakfast across from Ash Williams!"

Dean let out a surprised snort. "You actually watched _Evil Dead_, Bobby?" he asked incredulously.

Bobby gave a nonchalant shrug. "The first one sucked, but the second one wasn't half bad…"

Dean shot Sam a look that clearly stated 'Can you believe this?' Sam just shrugged. He honestly had no clue what the two men were talking about. Obviously some reference to a movie he had never seen. Truthfully, he was more amused by the fact Dean was getting sent to the bathroom to wash up like a naughty six-year old.

After Dean had gone obediently into the bathroom, Bobby grabbed a bag of food and moved over to stand next to Sam's bed. "Think you can eat something?" he asked.

Up until that moment, Sam hadn't felt particularly hungry, but the delicious aroma drifting from the bag in Bobby's hand made his stomach suddenly rumble, and he gave an enthusiastic nod. Bobby fished a breakfast burrito from the bag, unwrapped the foil from around it, then handed it over. Sam was grateful when his arms responded better than they had before, and he was able to take the burrito without incident. If Bobby had been forced to hand feed him, Sam just might have had to shoot himself. That is…if he could lift the stupid gun.

Dean exited the bathroom, his face freshly scrubbed, the cut on his forehead looking much better now that it was clean. He fell on the food at the table with gusto, and Bobby, sitting across from him, gave a disgusted shake of his head. "Try not to eat the wrapper," he muttered, taking a dignified bite out of his own food.

They ate in silence then, Sam having to focus all his energy just so he could lift the burrito to his mouth. He knew the food would help give him strength, but right now it was taking a lot out of him just to eat it. But it was good, and Sam forced himself to eat all of it, no matter how worn out he was by the time he had finished.

Unfortunately, _tired_ wasn't the only issue he had now. He bit his lip, knowing he was going to need help getting to the bathroom and dreading it. Before he could think of a way to ask for some assistance without feeling more like a helpless baby than he already did, Dean appeared at his side.

"Time to get up and move around a little, Sammy," he ordered briskly. "We can walk to the bathroom so you can freshen up a little. Your hair looks like a cat went to sleep on your head during the night and got stuck."

Sam rolled his eyes even as he felt a flash of gratitude toward his brother. Dean had always had a way of knowing exactly what he needed without him having to say anything at all.

Dean grabbed Sam's legs and swung them around until they were hanging from the edge of the bed. Then he reached out and grabbed Sam's right forearm. "On the count of three," he said, giving Sam's arm an encouraging squeeze. "One…two…three."

Sam did his best to push upward, but Dean ended up doing the majority of the work, hauling Sam's body up then swinging under his shoulder, his arm going around Sam's waist to help steady him. They stood still for a moment, giving Sam a chance to find his balance. When he finally felt like he was ready, he gave a small nod, and Dean began leading him slowly forward.

Sam found that if he shuffled his feet verses actually trying to lift them, he was able to carry most of his own weight. He was still extremely shaky, though, and his balance was off. He was grateful for Dean's steady support, knowing he never would have made it without him.

By the time they reached the bathroom, Sam was exhausted, his breath coming in short puffs and sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He was mortified when he couldn't even get his trembling fingers to unbutton his jeans and Dean had to do it for him.

Amazingly enough, Dean's attitude helped ease some of his embarrassment. His brother acted completely at ease, as though helping his grown brother use the toilet was as normal as a stroll through the park. He gave Sam as much privacy as possible while remaining close enough to help if needed, keeping up a constant stream of easy dialog. All the same, Sam was immensely relieved when they finally left the bathroom a few minutes later and shuffled back toward the bed.

"You did good, Sammy," Dean praised softly as he carefully lowered Sam back down to the bed, his voice toned low, for Sam's ears only. "You'll be up and about in no time, don't worry."

"Hope so," Sam mumbled, twisting around so his back was up against the mound of pillows Dean had piled up earlier. "This really sucks."

"Yeah," Dean agreed sympathetically. "I say we scratch this entire week from the records when all this is over."

"Definitely," Sam nodded emphatically.

Scratching something from the records was a practice they had started when they were kids. It meant a certain topic or experience was too painful or embarrassing to be talked about or ever mentioned again. The last time Dean had used it was when Sam had tried to talk about his leaving to go to college. Dean had shut him down fast, stating simply "That's been scratched from the record, bro."

Sam had been relieved and yet disappointed at the same time. He knew his leaving had hurt his brother badly, knew it as certainly as he knew he had no good explanation for it. There was no way he'd have been able to explain to Dean exactly how bad it had hurt to leave, and yet why he'd had to do it anyway. Still, a part of him had wanted to at least be given the opportunity to try.

Dean gave him a small pat to the knee before straightening and turning around to move back to the table. "Bobby, you have that dagger?" he asked quietly.

Bobby was in the process of cleaning up the trash from breakfast, but at Dean's question he immediately moved across the room to where his jacket lay discarded on the end of his bed. He pulled the dagger free from the pocket, then carried it back over to the table, offering it to Dean hilt first. Dean reached out and took the weapon, frowning in thought as he turned the blade over in his fist.

"Your right," he observed softly. "Cold's gone. It feels just like a normal dagger now." He turned to glance over at Sam. "You want to feel it?" he offered

Sam shook his head, willing to go with Dean and Bobby's observation on this. The sight of the dagger was making him feel slightly ill, and it had nothing to do with the dried blood still coating the blade. He could still remember the icy cold that had enveloped him the moment Eli had cut him, the helpless feeling as his strength had fled and darkness had claimed him. He could still feel the shadow of that cold now…a chill that rested deep in his bones and continued to rob him of his strength. It wasn't that he felt the dagger was still affecting him…it was more that he was still trying to recover from the original damage.

"Tell me exactly what happened in the warehouse," Bobby requested, lifting his hat to scratch at his head.

Dean let out a long sigh, placing the dagger on the table before running a hand down his face. He cast a quick glance at Sam on the bed, then squared his shoulders and faced Bobby.

"Sam was already down by the time I got there." He stated quietly, hurrying through the account as though anxious to get it over with. "Eli was standing over him with the dagger. He was glowing with this strange light, and whatever was happening, he was definitely enjoying it. I ran over to Sam, but it was too late, he was…already gone." Dean's voice faltered, and Sam saw him clench his fists at his side, the tension rolling off him in palpable waves.

"Then what happened?" Bobby pressed, his tone gentle, obviously recognizing how difficult it was for Dean to relive this.

"Eli started gloating," Dean replied, his voice so soft Sam had to strain to hear him. "He said something about Sam's life force tasting good." Dean's face twisted with disgust, and Sam felt himself shudder. "I guess I kinda lost it. I knocked him over and started punching him. He tried to stab me with the knife, but I grabbed his wrist and stabbed him instead."

Bobby frowned. "So did you start glowing? Did you feel his life force enter you?"

Sam felt his eyes widen at Bobby's question, the thought never having occurred to him before now. He stared at his brother in mounting horror, suddenly feeling as though he were about to be sick.

Dean swallowed hard, his face paling, but he shook his head emphatically. "No, nothing like that happened. I never started glowing. Eli did. And it was different this time. The light seemed to be causing him pain."

Sam felt a wave of relief wash through him at his brother's words, and when Dean glanced toward him he managed to give a small smile of encouragement.

Bobby chewed on his bottom lip, his expression thoughtful. "Were you touching the dagger at all when you killed Eli?" he asked.

The cut on Dean's forehead crinkled as he frowned. "I don't think so," he answered, slowly shaking his head. "I had his wrist, but he was the one holding the dagger's hilt. I don't think I touched the dagger at all."

Bobby grunted. "I think that's it," he replied. "That was the key. _You _weren't holding the dagger, Eli was. So really, it was like Eli killed himself…at least as far as the dagger was concerned!"

"As far as the dagger was concerned?" Dean echoed, arching an eyebrow.

"The dagger steals the life force of its victim and gives it to its master…which just so happens to be whoever is holding it at the time. Since Eli was holding it when he got stabbed, the dagger would have seen him as both victim _and_ master." Bobby shrugged. "My best guess is that the dagger was unable to both take and give the same life force. It sort of…I don't know…short circuited it."

"Which would explain why it's no longer cold," Dean mused, nodding his head slowly in realization.

Sam cleared his throat, instantly drawing both men's attention. "If that's true, Bobby, it still doesn't explain how I'm still alive. Eli cut me _before_ the dagger lost its power, remember?"

Bobby sighed. "Yeah, Sam, I remember. We're going to have to wander into the realm of speculation here, but I'm thinking that maybe Eli hadn't completely finished absorbing your life force before he died. I think there was just enough left in the dagger that when it fried itself, what was left returned to you."

"So basically I just got lucky," Sam summarized. "If Dean hadn't killed Eli, or if he'd been touching the dagger when he did, the weapon wouldn't have short circuited itself and I'd still be dead?"

Bobby nodded. "Yeah. Probably. You know, I've never been a big believer in them myself, but if anybody has a guardian angel, I'd say it was you, boy."

Sam leaned his head back against the pillows, letting out a small sigh. "I _do_ have a guardian angel, Bobby," he replied seriously, earning himself a surprised look from his brother. "He's standing right next to you," he finished softly, his gaze locked on Dean, hoping his brother could read all the words he didn't know how to say in his expression.

There were big brothers, and then there was Dean. His brother had a category all his own.

Dean stared at him a moment, and Sam waited expectantly for his brother to give some snarky comeback, his usual tactic when dealing with anything that felt the slightest bit awkward, or if he felt the conversation was straying anywhere close to a 'chic flick moment'. But surprisingly, Dean said nothing, merely gave Sam a small smile, his eyes softening slightly, his gaze conveying the clear message _Right back at ya, bro_.

Bobby cleared his throat, reminding them none too discreetly of his presence. Dean wasn't the only one who hated chic flick moments.

"So what about the dagger?" Dean asked, tactfully changing the subject. "How can we be sure it really _is_ fried and no longer dangerous?"

"Oh, I think we can be pretty sure," Bobby replied, holding up his hand and revealing a slight cut across the pad of one finger.

"Bobby!" Sam and Dean both spoke at once, glaring at the older hunter.

Bobby shrugged. "Relax. I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't already sure." He cocked one eyebrow. "Mostly sure, anyway."

Dean swore under his breath.

"So what do we do now?" Sam broke in, hoping to forestall the argument he could see brewing.

Bobby and Dean both looked over at him. "Now we lay low and let you regain some strength," Dean answered, fixing Sam with a pointed look.

"And then?"

Dean gave him a small half smile. "Then? We get back to doing what we do best: killing as many evil son's of bitches as we can."

And for the first time in a long time, Sam saw the old familiar gleam return to his brother's eye, a flash of the excitement and enthusiasm that had once marked Dean's every hunt. And for the first time in a long time, Sam felt a matching flare of anticipation.

Nothing had really changed, and yet, somehow, everything had changed. The last few days had taught them both an important lesson: As long as they were alive and together, then there was hope. And hope was all they needed...

…and all they would ever need.

**Epilogue**

Dean wiped his hands on the edge of the shop towel as he stood back and ran a critical gaze over the Impala's engine. A small smile tugged up the corners of his mouth as he admired his handiwork. The car's engine practically gleamed in the late afternoon light. He had spent the morning repairing the dent to the front fender, and had decided that he might as well give the Impala a thorough tune up and cleaning while he was at it. It was something they rarely had time for while on the road.

They had been at Bobby's house for five days now. For the first two days, Sam had been mostly bedridden, managing only the occasional assisted foray around Bobby's living room. Dean hadn't left the house at all during that time, in case his brother needed him. On the third day, Sam had seemed markedly improved, managing to not only rise from bed on his own, but shower and join Bobby and Dean in the kitchen for breakfast. He was still extremely weak, tiring easily and needing to rest often, but every day he improved a little more, and Dean felt confident that, given some time, Sam would make a full recovery.

Today was the first day that he had left the house while his brother was awake. It was disturbing how difficult it had been, but he knew it was a necessary step…for _both_ of their recoveries. Not a night had passed where he wasn't visited with horrific nightmares of what had happened in the warehouse. Every time he woke, sweating and terrified, he was unable to go back to sleep until he had checked on Sam…assured himself that his brother was still breathing…still alive. The hyper vigilance was wearing him out, and he knew he had to find a way to move past it.

It felt good to be out here working, burning off some of his restless energy and giving his brain something different to focus on. Some people had doctors and shrinks to help them move past traumatic experiences…Dean had his car. All in all, she was cheaper than a shrink, better looking than most doctors, and the best part was, she was never trying to pry past his mental barriers in an effort to get him to 'talk about it'. It was all a win-win, in Dean's mind.

The slam of Bobby's front door had him glancing in the direction of the house. Sam was making his way slowly down the front steps of the porch, his head bowed as he carefully watched each step. When he reached the bottom, he glanced up at Dean, flashing a triumphant smile as he left the support of the railing and made his way over to his brother, his steps only slightly unsteady.

Dean had the sudden mental image of Sammy when he was first learning to walk, hesitantly leaving the support of the couch to wobble toward his older brother who was luring him forward with Fruit Loops.

"Looking good," Sam announced as he reached Dean's side, his chin jutting out toward the Impala's glistening engine. "She looks like new."

Dean simply nodded in acceptance of the compliment, watching as his brother leaned against the side of the car with a small grimace.

"How's the shoulder?" he asked casually, tossing the shop rag into the nearby open toolbox.

Sam shrugged, rotating his shoulder a few times. "Still a little stiff," he admitted, "but much better. And before you ask, I only took a two hour nap this afternoon instead of my usual four, so there's that."

Dean grinned. "Great job, Sammy," he praised. "Pretty soon we'll have you weaned off your pacifier and everything!"

"Shut up," Sam retorted without any real heat.

Dean chuckled, reaching for the hood of the car and slamming it closed after checking to make sure all of Sam's appendages were well clear. "Well, don't push yourself, Sammy," he said, growing more serious. "Bobby said we can stay here as long as we need."

Sam looked up from studying his boots, casting Dean an appraising look. "So you're not anxious to get out of here?" he asked. "You didn't fix the car because you want to get back out on the road?"

Dean sighed. "I fixed the car because the car needed fixing," he replied simply. "And as far as being anxious to get back out there…that will all come when it comes. We're not leaving here until you're completely better, Sammy."

Sam nodded, then dropped his gaze, chewing on his lip as he stared down at his boots.

Dean rolled his eyes. It was obvious that his brother had more he wanted to say, and Dean doubted it had anything to do with them staying or leaving. For the last several days he'd sensed Sam watching him, fidgeting nervously or biting his lip, all telltale signs that his brother had something on his mind, but hadn't figured out the right time or way to say it yet. A part of Dean had hoped that whatever it was, Sam would just decide to let it go and move on, but he was never that lucky.

"Hey Dean, I was wondering something," Sam finally started, his gaze still locked down on his boots.

_Yep. Here it comes. _Dean thought resignedly even as he answered, "Oh yeah, what's that?"

Sam swallowed, shifting against the side of the Impala before finally raising his eyes to meet Dean's gaze. "It's about what happened in the warehouse," he began.

_Course it is. _"I thought we had struck that from the record, Sammy." Dean turned and knelt before the toolbox, reaching in to rearrange the tools so he could shut the lid.

"Yeah," Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah, but something's been bothering me."

Dean didn't answer, still daring to hope that Sam would decide to drop the issue. He was just starting to figure out how to stuff the whole experience into the lead box inside his brain where he kept all the other crap he didn't know how to face. Why did Sam have to go and try to pull it all out again? They had developed the whole "strike from the record" practice for a reason, after all.

Sam must have taken his silence as permission to go on, because after clearing his throat one more time, he plunged on. "I was awake, you know?" he stated. "For part of it anyway. I heard you and Bobby talking over me, but I couldn't move…couldn't even open my eyes."

"Sam…" Dean started, straightening from the toolbox, but his little brother raced right over him, as though needing to get the words out before Dean could stop him.

"I heard Bobby asking you about the antidote, and I heard what you said to him," Sam hurried on, his voice taking on a slight accusing tone. "You didn't really mean that, did you Dean? What you said about nothing mattering? You weren't really _not_ going to look for the antidote, were you?"

Dean could only stare at his brother, at a complete loss for words. He didn't particularly want to think back to those few horrible moments when he'd thought Sam dead. He vaguely recalled Bobby asking about the antidote, but couldn't remember exactly what he'd said to the older hunter.

"I thought you were _dead_, Sam," he replied, his own voice taking on a hard edge. "Excuse me for not really caring about much else at the time."

Sam's expression softened in sympathy, but his voice was still firm and determined. "I get that, Dean. I do. It's just that…well…without that antidote you would have died, and yet you sounded as though you couldn't have cared less."

_Yeah, so? _Dean thought, but knew it wasn't the answer Sam was looking for. "What is it you want from me, Sammy?" he asked tiredly, sinking a hip back against the side of the Impala's hood.

Sam looked at him, his eyes filled with such a mixture of emotion that Dean couldn't even begin to try to interpret it, even if he'd had the energy and desire to do it, which he didn't.

"I just need to know that if something ever happens to me, you won't do anything stupid," Sam finally answered. "Please. Can you promise me that, Dean?"

Dean stared at his brother, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears it was hard to think above the noise of it. It was happening all over again. It was funny how the worst events in all his life had each come with their own versions of promises:

_We'll find what happened to your mother, son…I promise._

_Don't come after me, Dean. I have to do this…I have to go. Promise me you won't try to stop me. Promise me you won't follow…_

_Promise me you'll watch out for Sammy, Dean. _Watch him…Save him…Kill him…

The weight of all those promises threatened to suffocate him, choke him on all the 'maybe's' and 'what ifs'. He was standing in front of his brother when all he really wanted to do was fall to his knees and pound the ground with his fists until his hands were bloody. He wanted to scream to the heavens…scream at the unfairness of it all until his throat was raw.

He didn't do any of that.

Instead, he forced a smile on his face, the expression never touching his eyes. "Sure, Sammy," he stated simply, the lie slipping easily from between his lips. He knew he could only ever be to his family what they needed him to be, and right now, Sam needed him to be the super-hero brother who would push gallantly on should anything ever happen to him. He would give Sam his illusion…give him his promise, because to let him see the truth was unacceptable. He would rather bear the weight of all those promises that could never be kept.

Sam studied his face for a moment before nodding his head, giving Dean a small smile. "Thanks," he murmured, his voice grateful.

Dean swallowed, then turned his attention back to the toolbox, unable to meet Sam's gaze any longer.

"Bobby said supper's almost ready," Sam stated from above him, his voice tentative. "You coming in?"

"In a moment," Dean answered, not looking up. "Go ahead and start without me."

Sam seemed to hesitate for a moment, and Dean tensed, but his brother didn't say anything else, merely pushed himself from the side of the car and began making his slow way toward the porch.

Dean watched him go, then silently returned to his task, nothing but his car and the echo of empty promises keeping him company.


End file.
